Anxiety

By Don Munro

Coffee machine

near me

on the kitchen table,

perched on a red-checkered

linen cloth,

perfectly ironed.

It steams,

breathes deep,

sighs,

sputters

in its own

energy.

It’s like my

heaving chest,

and poor head,

in my perfectly ordered world,

thinking

of the horrors

to come.

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