This book I’m reading tells
me to set aside time each day for concentrated
worry, and then store it away, a neatly pressed
tablecloth, but later
in the day, the cross stitches begin un-
raveling, the tiny rose-
buds disintegrate into ash, and I have at it again.
My concentrated effort reconvenes.
I worry about the red wine stain in the carpet that always returns.
I worry about my dog.
I worry about my summons to jury duty
I worry about the dark circle under my right eye.
I worry that my husband will leave me.
I worry that he will not.