Worries

There is a special collection of worries
that I keep in an old mahogany chest
in the attic of my mind

This is not where I keep those simple,
day to day worries
like
Does she think I'm cute?
What if I can't find parking?
What should I get my dad for his birthday?

If you were to open that old mahogany chest
in the attic of my mind,
you would see

What if a cockroach eats one of my toenail clippings
that fell under the bed? Will it absorb my DNA? Will it
become a half-human half-insect juggernaut of destruction?
What if every night I am replaced with a robot that has all my
memories? My voice, my thoughts, my desires all programmed
into its twinkling,
LED covered brain?
What if the only reason I haven’t developed pyrokinetic powers is because
of my disbelief?

And so I sit at my desk, staring at the black wick
of my lavender scented candle,
concentrating,
hands balled up on my knees
seeing,
in my mind’s eye,
an orange flame
blossom on that black, withered finger

at this moment, Lisa walks into my office
and asks
“Hey, Pete, what are you doing?”
“Huh?
Oh
I was just thinking about
what to get my dad
for his birthday.”