Throw Pillow

i can’t even

is stitched on the imaginary throw pillow my friend assigns this moment;

the antarctic doomsday glacier melting fast and v.p. j.d. vance, jesus;

on my way downtown, a bird hurls itself against my car windshield to die a flapping death in the rear-view.

the pattern is grim.

but now i am on my way to someone dear,

the imaginary throw pillow shifting into sunlight, still perfect.

i can’t even.