this afternoon

Often I worry;

a little; about me. What if

at fifty, I begin

to need people, love, babies. What

then, if I begin

to curse my Nazi exceptions? Why I didn't get me

a Facebook wife while there was time, why the hell

could I not just give up, fall in

- what if, what if I was (that fatal gong)

wrong?

Or worse yet (tritest of trite) - alone and right?

Then
 a movement, a dash, a breakneck swerve -

writing dizzy ellipses, cyan on blue

streaks of desperation; a touch of madness in their mating.

As kingfishers catch fire - I think

I think, I do not worry.

Rumi