I come from a street where cars all
move at 60 miles an hour, where
lights flash through
the window at 3 am,
unseen behind the laptop screen,
the consuming things
that keep me worrying.
My calendar is filled, planned
to the grave: the lamp
in the dining room becomes eternal,
its light my own sun that doesn't set.
I believe that if Sisyphus
reaches the top, he’ll let the boulder roll -
start over. What else is left for him?
We weren’t made
to withstand this velocity,
hypocrisy of clocks that demand
both rest and action: I’m a battery,
charge draining. I function on
the fuel of what-if and worry.
I come from post-hoc
ergo this, ergo now,
ergo playing it off perfect
and then crashing, crashing, crashing.