To the Pursuit

by Derek Thomas Dew

We are not yours, we are your

The real wound is this fatigue, with its dental floss

and background checks, its single drop of sweat

descending someone’s side, this desire to nullify

one another, the cold, cold palaces we serve,

the shower stream that takes forever to get warm.

We do all of this so often that getting better at it

means nothing except everything else it could’ve been.

It makes a commodity out of each and every day,

this aimless forward thrust, a commodity offering nothing

once obtained, no way to not invade other people,

no method for halting traffic for a wandering child,

in fact, no way to even look at children as anything

except the many, many lines they’ll stand in,

in front of a few and behind even more, each

little body a reminder of this maintenance,

this burden of constant renewal

that keeps us lost in familiar parts.