Sitting in that old chair again.
Strumming in a minor key.
The dog is curled and sleeping.
Eyes glazed-over full of worry.
Angst over an imagined fate.

Wasting more of the only day we’ve ever had.
Murder the present for a prospect.
Whole life swallowed by, “What if?”
Time’s tied and stomach sick.
Voices in my ears lie and kick up dust.
Head’s hazy and specks in the eye.

What evil genius?
To remove us from the moment.
Plucked from the Now
Planted in the dread of storms
Although skies are clear
Wait, the wind will change

Scrape every last thought from here.
Chain it to misfortune
Lace it with sadness
Match it with palpitations
A turning, twisting swell of emotion
Heavy hurt and ache

There is no here and now.
“Dad’s gone again.”
Sitting in his chair, staring.
“Hey, Dad! You there?”
“Sorry son, I’m not; not at all.”
I’m slain by threats.

Photo by v2osk on Unsplash