As he burned he never moved a
muscle, never uttered a sound, his outward composure in sharp
contrast to the wailing people around him.
– David
Halberstam
No news picture in history has
generated so much emotion around the world as that one.
– John
F. Kennedy
About a mile from home on my
walk this morning
I had to pee so bad I
panicked.
When I got back to my
apartment I panicked
with an irrational need to eat
the cheese Danish.
Right now, sitting here with
my laptop, I’m panicking
trying to think of the next
line in this poem,
and fighting a panicky urge to
turn my head to see
in the lot outside my window
who’s slamming car doors.
Oops, now my sense of urgency
is torn between focusing
on the assassin beetle
sneaking across a pane of the window
to my front and the tendril of
ivy waving at me behind it
from the edge of the building
across the parking lot.
At least I’ve abated my
panic about the “next line of this poem”
but now there’s the next.
Does it ever end? Do I want it to?
Is this the “...be or
not...” crux of my “busy being born”
v.
“busy dying” dilemma?
I know of one whose answer
spans the void between conceit
and moral dominion, yes,
goading me forever hold my pee.
mdp
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