High of fourteen degrees today
under blue skies
and snow everywhere.
I shovel my sidewalk and imagine
the fires in California,
homes and memories crushed into ashes,
lives and dreams going up
in smoke.
Maybe the displaced can start anew
in Greenland or Nova Scotia,
or settle along the Panama Canal
in all those new condos
being planned by Trump enterprises.
It’s nothing to laugh about
but we do or else we’d cry,
and it’s not fair but it never has been
and never will be.
So I plow my driveway and worry.
I visit my mother who’s in assisted living
after breaking her femur at ninety and worry.
I email my chili recipe to my granddaughter,
transfer money to pay for a cruise,
call the pharmacy to stop a prescription
and feel this sense of doubt
and worry behind everything I say and do.
What will happen because of the new tariffs?
Should I cash in my stock options and buy gold?
How will AI affect the future?
Why is the risk for developing dementia after 55
at 42 percent for Americans?
And how the hell am I going to live
through the next four years?
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