A tune plays on the radio, a jazz-funk fusion
with a title that sounds like a dire prediction.
One apocalypse or another is always coming.
Cold water runs from the kitchen faucet
while I play a game of what if, imagining
(for the millionth time) winning the lottery jackpot,
or a sink hole swallowing the house— just two of
all the possible ways my life might come unstuck.
Thoughts of collapse should feel unnerving,
but I’m enamoured of change, of sudden
reversals, having been raised on disaster movies
sweetened by coke, and toffee coated popcorn.
