Anxiety

The cab driver hovers his hand over the horn

waiting to bark on impulse,

and like a spoon bends against its façade of sterling strength

I change form a little, breaking at the joints,

anxious to the anticipation.

That nauseating twist of knowing you’re alive

pre-determined guilt sifting through blood, guised as growing pains, elementary sanctions, the realization that you have power to affect

while the mind grows and dies in a simultaneous pulse.

I’m sitting on the edge of a chair that’s about to lose its legs

teeter—and clench—teeter—clench—with the bite of a cheek

hands involuntarily form fists in preparation

waiting for the fucking shoe to drop could expire me

So like the galaxy abound

Let me explode.

Then exist as tiny gas mounds reflected off the moon

illuminating the bittersweet,

bright tomb.