My brain froths in its bone pot,
roiling with doomsday thoughts—
hurtling asteroid, boiling ocean,
galloping plague—disasters coming
at me from all sides. The future
is a snare tightening, or at least
that’s what my brain says, fizzing
like an alka-seltzer in a glass of
chardonnay as I lie on the couch,
running out the clock and making
poor nutritional choices because
why the hell not. The cat lounges
on the couch’s wide arm and cleans
and cleans himself. Once he’s done,
he tucks his face under his tail
and sleeps. I basically do the same,
except for the cleaning part. Sleep
is the most interesting place I go.
At least when I’m dreaming I can
leave my house without panicking
as the same horror film plays on
every screen, news cycle spinning
like a roulette wheel or the barrel
of a gun, the future a lethal lottery
ticket my brain can’t stop scratching,
even though it knows it can’t win.