Worried

I’m worried that my Toshiba laptop is a couple of boots
away from being unworthy of a boot sale.

I’m worried that I’ll always have hayfever
and summer will forever be clogged nose and mouth breathing.

I’m worried about finding a job that grabs
my happiness and stuffs it in the cubbyhole with other staff items.

I’m worried I don’t go home enough.

I’m worried about my bank account
as I watch savings leap off ledgers like lemmings.

I’m worried about the gravitational pull between
my belt and waistline, I’m putting asteroids on.

I’m worried about finding that elusive stream of love,
me being prone to roam wanton torrents of desire.

I’m worried that I devalue myself
with trinkets disguised as soft lips and warm hands.

I’m worried about increasing political polarisation:
intolerant lefties and righties who have to be right (and often white).

I’m worried about the lack of seriousness given to sea rising
and the mounting cost of more CO2 in our lungs.

I’m worried that my dreams stay bound to the reams of my mind
and bullied to the seams with the reality of living.

I’m worried that you expect me to have answers…

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