Monday, 7:50 a.m.

Oct 12 2013

Up the hill
I see everyone’s backs
as they trudge up the incline,
the first wave straggling toward class.
Ragged movements, deflated by football
the loss of pride, the dejection of Monday.
Zombies rambling, all in the same direction
for no undead ever turns back;
once we die, ever headed in the same direction.
There is someone at their next stopping point,
valiantly trying to teach physics or English
at 8 a.m. on a Monday. Rough gig, but noble.
The zombies will not notice the nobility,
or become self-aware of their raggedness.
at least, not today.

Down the hill
A little brighter in the sky
A little heavier of breath.
A clear anomaly in the pattern:
Everyone is walking toward me, now
more casual, acknowledging tardiness
as a reality, not a possibility.
Some smile at my huffing and puffing,
some avert their eyes, shameful of something.
I am not a billboard model, nor even
particularly in shape;
and so I wonder what averts their eyes?
I can think of a dozen reasons,
many of which a woman should not have to worry about.
Alas, the darkness of the world still stings.
But the brightness: a man laughs, remembering-
a woman smiles, encouraged;
a friend high-fives.
These are not zombies;
although the world would make them so.
We take in the world as we must,
some defensively, some artistically,
some excitedly, some compulsively.
So we fight zombies not outside us,
but within us.

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