by Nick Regalado

Things are uncertain
the whole world is on edge
close to spilling over

I think of moving
to some cold metal metropolis
like New York
or Tokyo.

for just a moment I wallow in
full on cliché

and then I shutter
at what seems to be
an impending sense
of inevitable doom.
I feel it.
in my neck
digging at a painful “No”

my soar ribs
begging me
to shelter the horses

roaming like 1999
or ‘68 down the freeway
across the Midwest
Hell bound for desert

I sense that freedom
has past
the hour gone
clouds forming
with haste

at least for now

the time to sit sunny
sits out in the rain
sloshing it’s face again
-st a brewing hurricane
watching it whip, closer and closer

something is sure
on the rise
the same something found all over.


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