Dear Worry

Just Now

Dear Worry,

Just now, in the darkness, I count my toes.

Like I did when I was a kid.

I lay in bed and stare through the ceiling. Listening for my friends to come. To tell me all the secrets about how to be. My childhood room. Twin bed. Four little posters. A night light. Three large windows. Light coming under the door.

Just now, I’d like to be living in a school bus that I made with my own hands. Each morning, I’d like to rise with the sound of rain and wind against my metal shell. I’d like to swing open the door and step down. Thrump. Thrump. Thrump. Into wet grass. I’d like to walk on the trail to the river. Undress. Put my feet in. Then my body.

The earth devours me.

Overhead there are clouds. One. Two. Three. They pass and move with the current. Down the valley. Toward the place, the town, the people I’ve never been. I’d like to drive there later. I’d like to finish this poem. This story. This book. I’d like a stranger to make me laugh.

On the sidewalks are painted messages about Love. On the playground are scrawled, illegible sigils about being unseen. I walk to the cemetery. I walk past the railroad tracks. I sit and listen to the sounds of men playing baseball. Christmas lights flash and tell a story from every front room window. This house has a garden. This house has a dog. This house has a roof falling in. This house is sinking into the earth.

The stars are underneath.

Love,

Kris