No one is accepting      blame 
 
    for anything.   Anxiety               flies.
Hopes 
           plummet.    Fingers  point —— 

They are arguing more and more. 

The dog doesn’t wag her tail      much. 

Fear grows. 

Even melodic notes of 
               light classical music 
                                sound 
						staccato 
with undue bravado —- violence     even. 

Tchaikovsky isn’t so sad in Pathetique 

as much as really, 
                   really, 
                   really                mad  

and then he died. The always 
cheery commentator
won’t tell you the 
truth about it; it’s fake
news.   

The (p)-resident is 
about to enter Fifth Ave. 
with a high-powered
military rifle and shoot
while the crowd of red-
capped white
people cheers. 

The skin begins to                itch. 
It won’t stop                     itching 
and she won’t stop                scratching 

until the skin is         gone,
the flesh is              gone, 
and she hits the          bone.

* image of allergies (as a metaphor) from a poem 
about anxiety