It should matter not that
the sofa pillows are askew,
the lawn mower lines run wonky,
that my fingernails need trimmed,
that I’m awake at 7:26
and must wait until 7:30 to rise
because the even, roundedness
of the number is safe, predictable, comforting,
or that my eyebrows grow unevenly
and must be groomed daily,
that the cereal boxes are not in alpha order,
the canned goods are uncategorized like madness,
that my neighbors end their sentences with prepositions,
“Where are you going to?” and say,
“The electric went out,” and “I could care less,”
my God the horror!
But these aberrations (and more) weigh indeed on my mind like
Acme anvils
perched on a cliff
waiting for the Roadrunner to push it all
to catastrophe.
Why can’t the world make sense,
shirts hung in color order, left to right, dark to light,
radio and television volume set at an even number,
beds made,
shoes paired,
belts rolled,
socks matched,
sandwiches cut diagonally
for the love of Mike,
magazines evenly fanned
on streakless coffee tables,
wall hangings plumb,
weather predicable,
the serrated side of butter knives
pointed inwards because
we are civilized?
So, I lie awake at night
mind swirling with
sitcom theme songs,
novel characters in dire straits,
hungry children with distended bellies
encircled by horse flies,
tear streaked,
bewildered,
shooting victim families aggrieved,
distorted political ads,
discorded families,
my father’s ghost
whispering coded wisdom to me,
notions of what really happened
to Marilyn Monroe
-naked and alone-
dancing on the tip of my sleep,
and I fret over it all,
stew with agitation,
fear,
consternation,
and nervous
anticipation,
that the world will slip from its axis,
spin out of control,
hurl toward the sun
like a perfect eephus
into some dark, vast void,
that God will cry “Uncle!”
snap his galactic fingers,
and end it all.
