The Psychology of Time

I'm tried and
tired.  If I were a pop culture
t-shirt I would read
"exhausted since 2003".
In my head that's when it began,
but really it was much sooner.
I vaguely recall the psychologist
drawing a blob on a piece
of scrap paper saying,
"What do you see when you look at this?"
I remember being introduced
to sex way too early, the twisted racetrack
of misshapen beads, waking up
in the middle of the night
unable to breathe and
the visits to the emergency room.
I remember cupping my ear
to the wall while laying in bed
listening to the neighbor screaming
at her two daughters all through the night,
and the exact color shape and size
of the barbecue brush my sister's father
would threaten to beat me with.
Oh but how things can change
so easily here, like the silence
between war disfiguring the spirit
of its survivors.  And we are
restless, and fatherless, pledging
allegiance to a flag that bears no meaning.
We were bred as one, born
from the same mother though we fight
ourselves and each other
with foolish honor heated on our breath.
"Times are tough," the grey haired folk say
while swinging on their porch benches,
television locked to CNN or the local news.
They don't know the half of it, the distance
separating us two rings in a sequoia.