I’m pretty sure I think too much
(or maybe not enough)
because every time a floorboard creeks in the night
I am convinced someone is breaking in,
hatchet in hand.
Someone snagging the last box of Oreos at the store
proves I am marked for misfortune, and
my phone laying silent on the tabletop
means everyone is hanging out without me.
A suspicious mole is sure to be cancer,
stubbed toes will make me crippled for life,
and never speak of a late night toothache –
I might as well order my dentures now.
But I still have all my teeth and feet and hair,
and so far there are no murderers disturbing the air,
or even waving the last box of Oreos menacingly.
So maybe I should just stop thinking,
and finally go to sleep.