Dinner
We have enough stuff to make dinner for anxiety.
All of the empty fixings we raise our laughter to.
He comes over once a month, every two weeks, once a week.
Settles down like tile patterns in the kitchen.
Anxiety has wit and is not scarce.
Blooms of stocking stuffers when it’s not even Christmas are deadly.
Maybe I’m brave enough to be spilled all over.
I have anxiety in my twitchy scalp.
We really do have enough for dinner.
The steam from the boiling pot is withering.
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