Dario R. Beniquez
My friends worry obsessively.
They worry about the end of the world, 2012,
harmonic convergence, Mayan Cosmology, my retirement.
They persist on building bomb shelters,
steel reinforced concrete basements,
with a water supply to last ninety days or more,
with canned foods, Goya, De Monte, frijoles, habichuelas,
10-pound bags of Mahatma rice, a shelter with a shelf
with a small RCA transistor radio to pick up rogue
They worry about me. Where's my bomb shelter? Don't I care?
We can be attacked at any minute. Anthrax, biological weapons
are everywhere, just around the corner; an earthquake can shake
us off our feet anytime, or even a Tsunami from the Pacific Ocean
can send us scampering to the hills.
I could think. I could be hit by a grand piano falling from outer space,
right now, but I don't.
They worry for me, my friends. I worry for them, the worry people.
I carry them with me all the time, and at night I place them underneath
my pillow and let them do the worrying for me.