What's the worst thing
that could happen? is a question
you're told you should think about
when on the brink of anxiety. Loaded
question, that. You might say a truck
throttling down the road could ram
through the front porch and screech
to a stop in the living room. You might
forget to turn off the burner or the water
and come home to cinders or a flood.
A proliferation of irregular blooms
might come to light, encircled by contrast
dye. The worst thing that could happen,
therefore, is that we die. But is anyone
you know— or are you— dead right now?
No? Then perhaps you can go out in the night
and observe what goes on and off, not caring
how many times. Frog calls. Fireflies.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
