The things we do to try and pass the time:
slowest, excruciating, in lines that snake
and double around the block, or in five-lane
traffic, stuck— Before we’ve even begun
the day in earnest, the morning’s festered.
And every other road sports cracks left over,
untended, from last election season and its promises,
soon to dovetail with the next. And in the hills
where ancient waters gathered in basins
beneath the trees, developers have sent
their armies of earth-movers. Storm after storm
scathes now, and not just passes. In the dark
we try to think of things that make life bearable.
Dank air in humid rooms, where light bulbs flicker.
In response to Via Negativa: Overthink.