Sometimes the Kinks play on repeat in the back of my brain.
moving its slow thighs
let’s return to the idea of the future --
how it hangs in front of us, sometimes
more concrete (it seems) than the moment
that defines us. i too face that specter
with welling anxiety, a semi paralyzing
fear that i thought i’d left behind with my
agonized forties. more than ever now i wonder
how i will die, and when, and why, and hope
it will be swift, crashing me from behind.
is that why more and more i think i see
a hulking presence in the corner of my eye?
it startles me, electrocutes my blood, then
spreads through me like hot ink. is this
the next chapter, or the last, stalking me?
chasing me with agonizing languor into
that future’s black body, that living grave?
