I’m not sure what happened. I lost an arm. Or a leg. Or I’m not sure which.

It just got hard. A life in syrup. A motion slowed by commotion.

Or rote: Feed. Clean. Water.

Or necessity: Cut. Split. Stack.

Or reality: Eat. Drink. Be not.

I’m not sure which.

I’m never sure. Lately.

But I go through the motions. One. Two. Three.

And then I remember: When in doubt: Play “Street Hassle.”

Problem solved (look it up).

But people in my town remain worried:

• about energy;
• about fuel;
• about today;
• and tomorrow;
• about food;
• about food waste;
• about the morning;
• and the night;
• about sickness;
• and health;
• about love;
• and marriage;
• about gay;
• and straight.

And I think: Why not all of it? But that’s just me. I’ve got worrying in my genes.

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