NaPoWriMo 2017, poem 5

I see you, low-level anxiety—

creeping around my core

with nothing to coherent to say.

When I listen

to the turbulent panic,

seeking solace and wisdom,

it’s like a TV set

that won’t stay tuned

to a single clear channel.

Snippets of random stuff comes

bubbling up – something about

money, food, over scheduling,

it goes on and on

— one commercial after another

making me want stuff I don’t need

to assuage problems

that aren’t real.

I carefully turn the knob,

let shallow breathing deepen,

make some notes,

and focus on one troubled station

at a time,

hoping for some insight.

Often what I find is a picture

much larger than I can imagine

where my role is so small

that worry seems as useless

as an antenna in a hurricane.

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