It's not any great tragedy but the mundane,
the quotidian, which taxes me:
haircuts, shaving, the mowing of lawns;
leaf-raking, tooth-brushing, driving to work;
taking out the garbage, matching socks;
flossing, timesheets, getting gas for the car....
I long to be forced to flee at night,
all wits and energy required just to survive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem