I used to worry about quicksand

I used to worry about quicksand;

Spontaneous combustion, that was a big one.

UFOs, poltergeists. The seven deadly sins,

Father Woods. Hell.

I used to worry about my skin, my hair;

Other girls who fancied my boyfriend,

Whether he’d be faithful,

Whether I’d be faithful,

Whether I’d be found out.

I worry now about big things:

The state of the world, 

The planet, the people on it,

Corruption and conspiracies,

The rise of the right,

Fascism, fanaticism.

I worry about medium things:

Can I pay the rent, is everybody healthy,

How is school, are we still friends,

What’s next, am I enough?

I worry about little things:

Did I put the bin out?

Where are the football boots, are they clean?

The fact I broke the special glass,

Lost the necklace,

Still haven’t cleared out the cellar.

I worry I don’t remember everyone’s birthdays.

I worry about the enormous things

that I can’t even put into words,

because doing that makes them real,

gives them weapons with which to skewer me,

bludgeon me, fell me to a state where

I can’t breathe, move, be.

You know what I mean.

You know the unworded worry,

You feel it too.

We all do.

Let’s just call it loss,

and gloss over it.

And instead worry about:

The bin

And the boots

And the rent

And the right

And the hair

And hell.

And tell ourselves, well,

If I keep on top of all that,

It will all be alright.