at least, according to a friend of a friend of a friend.
She asks me a question. It’s a simple one,
just, “what do you like to do for fun?”
Thoughts scatter like roaches when the light’s
turned on; they scurry into every nook,
slide into every cranny better than
baseball pros stealing second.
But this is not a home run,
It’s bases loaded.
Panic sets in:
contain the plethora, condense the thoughts
into something comprehensible,
you you have bell curved blue down to make me
make sense. Make sense,
come on brain, make sense and then
make it make sense to her.
Don’t get lost in the heavy collection,
those vaults are meant to stay closed.
That’s the problem with cheap security, I guess.
It can’t keep anything contained.
“The problem” sneaks up behind the door.
The problem is—
No, see, the problem is that this heart of mine keeps trying to grow back
in the space I carved out for silence,
but where—schedule primary care appointment &
playing Tetris with all my pieces & what if I accidentally
use superglue without gloves again? creeps in instead.
Kasey Roper 