When the Crickets Within Me Whisper

In the asylum no one sings on key.
We sit in the silence, you and I, growing
uncomfortable. The nurse says, Why
Citalopram? I say, It's all this waiting
for the second coming. She leans against me,
grabs my arm, a soothing frazzle shimmy
runs down my spine. Above us
planets and stars. Within us, a rhythm section.
Between us, a throbbing current.
It's Tuesday, plants are growing and dying,
the tides are under the influence,
we are watching the woman in high heels
melt down. In Dallas, four people are wounded
while holding a vigil for yesterday's killing. 
I try to calm my noodle dome.
Suddenly, Good Friday seems ridiculous
although I do love the last happy seconds
of mass when we are spotless for a tick
before traffic pulls us back down.
I think of the highly motivated
now dead on Everest, the rinse-lather-repeat
pattern of mandarin-sized tumors,
how something star-studded is always upriver.
The tiny orange pill gives my depressed tongue
hope, and the shabby place I used to be
becomes a jostle of green possibility.
Despite roadside crosses and autumn leaves,
my stupid tail still wags.

First published in I-70 Review, September 2025. This is also the titular poem of my next book, coming to an Amazon.com near you in November 2025.