I awake to sounds of my dog puking in the kitchen

& my box fan gently humming its dusty aria.

I yawn & scratch, forgetting, for once, to regret

making it through the night. Today, it seems, my

brain is on my side. I trudge to the window, see

the frost night gifted, wonder if my gas tank has

enough for me to warm the engine & make it to work.

Winter has a routine I wish anxiety would employ.

I rouse my boy & cook his breakfast of smoked sausage

& tater tots. We’re sitting at the table gnawing our vittles,

going over numbers & letters between greasy swallows,

when the fact that I will someday be one of his memories

begins echoing in my head loud as a storm siren.

My boy’s voice becomes a spore in my tornado

of alternate endings. & this is not the time. Not as

he tells me the octopus has three hearts, swinging his legs

& grinning like fields of wheat wave & smile at the sun.

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