It starts somewhere

between the shoulder blades —

a pull, a clench,

then it slides into the chest.

It squirms.

It howls.

It shoots a side glance,

like a cunning, spoiled child

denied its candy.

You can ignore

this circus

for years —

playing the role

of stern but fair

Spinner or Spock.

You can try to bargain

with pacifiers and pity —

poor, helpless,

irrational

little thing.

It comes out of nowhere:

after the alarm clock’s ring,

after sirens scream,

or just —

out of the blue.

Sprinkle me,

revive me,

oy vey is mir —

splash me with a shot of cure-all,

or better yet — two.

Bless me with strength,

seed me with serenity,

tame the psyche

before it shatters

into particles.

Then it curls into a lump,

sighs — with a hiss,

and just as suddenly

as it came,

disappears.