Fear and Anxiety live in the basement.
They complain it’s too expensive
to find another headspace,
and mine is so comfortable.
They added a bathroom
and a ping-pong table.
I smell Chinese food delivery
every time I walk by the door.
They say they just hooked up.
But they ramble on like the odd couple
paired for years, wanting to retire
but have too many obligations
and friends to pester—or haunt.
They’re squatters, refusing to leave
my cushy digs.
Fear and Anxiety need couple counseling.
They bicker about who is worse, and who
left the toothpaste on top of the toaster,
and where to go out for a fright.
Earplugs can’t keep me from hearing
the screaming, my poor brain is steaming.
Sleep left the house for a cruise.
Fear complains about the past, Anxiety,
the future. I bite my nails. Beg Sleep to
rescue me. Sleep, long gone, left me some
red wine, bitter chocolate, and espresso.
I find Fear’s journals and curl up with Anxiety
to read Fear’s secrets. Hair-raising stories of falling
out of planes in flight, battling hairy arachnids,
running from snakes, facing job interviews.
Sleep has a nightmare of
losing her way on the freeway,
and getting side-ended by a drunk driver.
She schedules 10 session with a therapist
and sends Fear and Anxiety the bill.
Fear and Anxiety move out
of my basement before thugs
beat them for the money.
Thank you, sweet Sleep.
written with Barbara Leonhard, published on Substack:
Masterful...truly