Poor Little White Girl

Exhausted, weary, worn–
In a place she doesn’t know,
She nods her head,
Succumbing to bone numbness.
It’s her kind of place,
Full of history and pageantry
And music, art, and dance.
Yet the weariness
Of the weight she bears
Crushes her energy,
And she gives up
On doing more than watching.
Maybe it’s the price she pays–
Living and working in the concrete forest and grasslands,
Out of synch with the rhythms
Of seasons passing through and out of time.
Her last thought,
As darkness overtakes her:

Lord, I’m not Atlas.
If I shrug,
Will you catch my crazy world?

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