Barren Despair

A humble realization after teaching Markus Zusak's The Book Thief.

I selfishly declare

I am exhausted

As I flop onto my bed.

My husband laughs,

"You only have one more week,

Hang in there."

"Yeah, yeah . . ." I mumble

into the delicate plush of my pillow.

My thoughts drift to 24-year-old Max

in The Book Thief. 

He is a Jew,

Hiding in the basement 

of the Hubermanns. 

The threats of exposure 

And concentration camps stroke

the gray stubble on his face,

demanding that he stay awake

and pay attention to them.

His dark, purple eyes reflect

the near blackness inside of him.

I, 24-year-old first year teacher, 

do not know tired 

like the German Jews of 1942.

They are married to fatigue,

meeting exhaustion 

in the middle 

of the night

for an obligatory rendezvous.

The birth 

of such an affair

is despair. 

And I will never 

bear this child. 

Author's Note

How do I classify this? I feel like it's lacking in poetic elements. Where can I go with this? Should I try to create a story out of this? Where can I strengthen word choice?