All My Anxieties

All my anxieties…
About did I leave the stove on!
Or maybe the keys hanging
Stuck to the outside of the door,
instead of the lining of my pockets.

Maybe all my worries…
about how dreadful the world is going to
Turn out
are simply attempts
to come home.

Time spent at the homes, we once knew,
is radio-active.
Memories of them
don’t just disappear –
They divide themselves
into half-lives.

We are today miasmas
of carbon waiting
to be pulverised
into food for worms.

Soon we’ll begin to reek of the end.
No scented paths have been listed
in our after-life gratuities and underground pension plans,
So, pluck up your wild roses and come quickly.
I’m taking my summer home
with me –
not the place, the feeling.

Radium-like the home can glow
for a near eternity,
until we can see the shapes
of our bones and traumas
carved in the light
of its tunnel.

This unthinking innate impulse
To turn around, head back
cannot be called anxiety,
I think it is sanity.

Maybe our brains pretend to forget
because our hearts remember
We must find a reason, any reason –
even a made up one will do-

To come home,
fly back home.