Morning in America

I was lying in bed after a mediocre night’s sleep imagining a nation of wildly creative artists, brilliant scientists, dedicated farmers, skilled survivalists who would win the T.V. show “Alone,” alt comedians, people whose kindness defines them, food-loving cooks, skilled sharpshooters, and babies. I planned to write about it, but as I approached my desk, coffee in hand, I sneezed.

So, I spent my limited early-morning writing time sopping up puddled coffee, which wouldn’t be a big deal if I didn’t add French vanilla oat flavored creamer that’s basically 100% sugar.

Now, with the five minutes I have left, I can tell you the February sunrise is the opposite of our country’s future: rosy. I can tell you I used to live in a nation that was flawed but recognizable, rather than a cruel hellscape run by greedy demons. Maybe I should be writing about that, but with three-and-a half minutes left, where do I even begin?

Ugh. My decisions these days are terrible; rooted in panic, doomed to erasure. I use my remaining two-and-a-half minutes to scurry to the kitchen to refill my coffee before writing. The sunrise, I’m thinking. Maybe a poem. Did I mention that it’s rosy? Now that I’m at my desk, my nose feels itchy. I hold my coffee tight.