I’m worried about the world going to hell in a handcart.

I ruminate on the numerous 

And various ways it could do that.

I’m riding my bike and come to a turning place.

I could go this way, or I could go that.

I choose to go a further route

That takes me by a pasture

Where a playa lake buzzes 

With natural activity.

The birds remind me 

That it’s going to be okay.

The leaves of grass speak Whitman to me

And suggest other poetry,

And that mushroom that popped up overnight 

Reminds me that

There are things I do not like to eat.

I remember my baby brother’s birthday dinner,

When they offered him a plate of spaghetti,

And he looked at it without taking it.

“I don’t like mushrooms,” he said.

“Those aren’t mushrooms,” Mother lied.

“Those are... um..... green beans.”

“I don’t like green beans,” he replied,

And whirled about and ran back outside to play.

It was his birthday, for gods sake,

And he didn’t even get to have any cake,

Because he hadn’t eaten his spaghetti.

I sigh,

And bravely onward go.

The world went to hell in a handcart 

A long time ago,

But that’s okay.

-jenn