The kitchen radio’s whine
intones catastrophe—
wildfire, species loss—
all breakfast long. While I
offer a troubled grace
for oatmeal, toast, and juice,
it dribbles misery down.
The local news, too, rages:
again, thefts in the night
that leave the daylight roiled.
Crime numbers foul the pages,
old news, as sour as piss.
I shake my head at this,
knowing what ails the world:
We will be kind! we vow.
But the wasps nest in the eaves
above the door, and suss
these ins and outs of ours.
They dive-bomb with a buzz.
We can’t have that. Their end
is nigher now than it was.
Intentions wrenched awry,
I dawdle on the stoop
with one ear cocked to the jay
throbbing a three-note song
sharp-edged as idiot hope.
Since everything’s gone wrong,
I heave my weakness up
and shoulder into the day.
Photo by Muhammad Hussam on Unsplash
