Wobble

We wobble as we hurtle through space towards an unknown collision. We wobble on uneven tires through potholes, sinkholes, and intersections packed with other wobblers. Strollers wobble on uneven park paths, rocking a baby too wobbly to walk. Carcinigating false sugar packets stack on sticky floors to prevent wobbly tables from wobbling the coffee. We wobble up steep stairs to avoid wobbling elevators, to sit on wobbly chairs in a building that wobbles from traffic and earthquakes. We wobble out of the bar, whispering a midnight prayer that the other half of our wobbly marriages won’t greet us at the door. We’re all drunk wheels rolling into unimaginable disaster, unable to wobble out of the way.