Classic Poem

whenever someone complains
of travel sickness
or the rash, its always with the hope
of a better summer next time around.
we in the chill of nondoing
have no experience of the sun,
we freeze in complicated postures,
silent in our disapproval,
yet content to remain.

we who have no birthing pangs
or yearning fangs,
we who haven't tasted blood as yet,
what do we know of idle splashing,
what do we know of sickness and rash?

upside-down, inside out and cold
like embalmed bats,
our silence reaches longer
than your screams.