By Jeremy Ball
Isn’t serious and lacks
the sex appeal of manic
depression, but could always
turn into schizophrenia, cancer,
or a bleeding ulcer.
It’s the four a.m. fear
of four p.m. You forgot to
zip your pants, and your
notecards for the speech.
Franklin Roosevelt’s
fear of fear itself.
Crying without a nearby onion,
laughing when the elderly fall,
swearing repeatedly during prayer,
not being able to stop.
Maybe you’ll forget
how to breathe when you sleep,
die during Winter,
not be buried till Spring,
have a boring funeral,
and a typo on your tombstone.
Someday, some girl will say “yes,”
but your dead grandma will
show up drunk with an album
of your nude baby pictures
and your foreskin in a jar.
It can be treated with blue pills
but damn near cured with
six to eight blue cans
of Bud or Miller Lite.
Clutching at Straws 