my fingers ache to write, just write!
the congestion in my head closes in with every breath,
the boiler room doors slam shut, one after another, as the flood waters rise,
all clarity and connections closed inside and sinking.

the energy it takes to find every next word
could fuel a dozen guide lamps through the fuzzy future fog.
i struggle to focus on the just next thing.

when the midnight darkness rings with dread . . .  we find enough strength for the next one thing.

when the now is weighing heavy with the worry of tomorrow . . . we cling to hope in the coming next thing.

when the dream-heart cries for breaking out of its hard and smothering mold . . . we go all in, with vigor, for that next risky thing.

today’s next is pants and a trip to the drugstore,
tomorrow: the world!
beware the next thing.