Roaring is bravado, not bravery,
so I keep quiet courage.
No shot of whiskey
or ceremonial medal for valor can quell
my tangled jungles of anxiety.
Is my work any good?
Has my daughter found true love?
Do my jokes go over?
Will my neuropathy
leave me unable to hold a pencil?
Do I need a haircut? Did I leave a good tip?
Will my tomatoes ripen before frost?
Will the cancer of racism end
before a warming planet
is devoured by violent storms?
Bewitched by encircling fears,
I’m caught in a feline
King-of-Beasts fantasy, surviving
on the uncertainty of lion-hearted hope
where life is as scary as death.
