A middle-class death

When are we supposed to reach

the age at which our rest is due?

We are tired

– tired of looking after others,

our elders and youngers –

– the first bailing out as soon as possible – 

– the second deferring for as long as they can –

We are left with the toil and the sweat,

the emptiness of our feelings and of our lives

– the very subject of the shows we watch –

We are tired of stretching ourselves

across such vast distances,

our minds numbed with pain

and impossible tasks.

We long to rest – perhaps even

waste our lives, unoccupied,

unaccompanied, slothful –

for the prospects of being too frail and sick

to be able to rest when our work is done

– out of breath and having achieved little –

– unable or unwilling to have sex, do sports –

– life suddenly just a distraction,

death the justification –

– and endpoint:

bedridden, committed, parked and underfed:

how could we escape this middle-class death,

we ask you – the answer more deafening

than the fucking Big Bang

– and we’re expected to go down

with a barely-heard whimper –