Plaster on the bedspread,
the wood above the doorway cracks.
If not now, then soon,
I'll lose consciousness,
swoon,
a syncope,
so, I flee down the stairwell
from what might collapse.
The lost keys,
missing earrings, and
cracked ceilings
have no meaning
when panic attacks.
My heartbeat in a cellphone ring.
Midst the rubble of feelings,
I find myself panting,
prostrate in a dog park,
afraid of aftermath,
of death by a design flaw.
So, I choose to wait
in humble posture, agait,
for time to clear a path.
©2025|K.F.Hartless
Cover Art: Jeffrey Smart The Earthquake 1959
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Leave a comment