Comfort is where we’ve settled,
a well-appointed existence
with commodities on the side.
I dawdle with grandchildren
casting pink thread for slugs
ignoring the sludge in my veins
while he wrestles with fallen
leaves and closing the pool
and readying for the cold ahead.
Even now, there is no security
no locks to protect against invasion;
we live a permanent transience.
When complacency is threatened
we steel ourselves, steadying
against the pull of anxiousness
telling ourselves it’s all expected
we’ve known all along that life
is tenuous, control a fallacy.
Current upsets prove hollow
and we, precariously plodding,
hover once again at the edges.