Sizzle tells me it's National Poetry Month. She's taking 5 minutes every Friday over breakfast to jot down a poem. It's neither Friday nor breakfast, but it is still April, so here's something resembling a poem that I wrote:
Tired of waiting,
waiting for bad news.
Getting it is no better though.
The anxiety I held at bay
latches on to my next options,
none what you'd call good.
Pragmatic mode tries taking charge:
the one that surfaces when
someone has died
and flights and lodging need booking.
But the demands are greater
and sometimes that cool, efficient calm
slips out of my grasp unexpectedly.
I do not like any of this.
A year ago on TTaT: Sketchbook, page 19
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