From the 17th floor, I can hear it all.
Abrupt splashing as cars plow through puddles
on their way to a mundane job.
How many of us are truly doing our life's work?
How many of us can answer that candidly?
Children chirping,
I imagine their backpacks so large
it takes a conscious effort to remain steady.
I'm not sure they realize how fortunate they are,
For this is the only weight they must carry.
I envy their innocence.
I overhear phone calls to loved ones and not-so-loved-ones.
Dialogues of "I love you" and "I ******* told you so".
How many times in a day do you think we fluctuate between tenderness and discontent?
I can't possibly be the only one who seesaws incessantly.
I'd imagine the vast majority of you are just more adept at camouflaging it with fraudulent smiles.
I can't stop thinking about those enormous backpacks.
At what age will the world ask of them
to trade in their crayons and books for more burdensome things?