These fingers ache
with all the things
they keep getting asked to do throughout the day,
without merciful respite,
whether impressing upon these keys
or turning pages in eager joy
or stabbing at buttons
that bring up continual productions
full of food or travel -
which only bring about a sense of unfulfillment (that word just got invented) -
or preening posturers pretending to be better than all.
These fingers ache,
even though so many thoughts have not yet
been let loose,
and moan at the thought of all that
they will be asked to do.

These eyes ache,
after being forced to stare
at screens and pages of varying sizes
under poor light,
till they snap open
and after dizzying scattering,
try to turn inwards
and fix with their toughest gaze
the thought-maker that helped
time to merrily flit past,
but they can't of course,
and can do naught but
keep looking on till
they're switched off again
by that tease.

Because this mind aches,
with having to calculate
and tabulate
and assimilate the random bits of pointless gossip
that were being nibbled on
in between select morsels of the worldly world,
and following the lives and thoughts
of so many others
and keeping track of who said what and where
and of what one said to whom too,
and coming up with remarks
pithy and witty
because how else will people believe
that one has a personality worth knowing,
yes?

This body aches,
with having to listen to the complaints
of all these different voices,
and specially that little group
of lax muscles
that's rallying together around the ninth vertebra,
and who refuse to disperse
or negotiate
except with the sounds of slumber.

Closure is demanded,
because
it's been
A Long Day.