Overload
Bluetooth lights up the console—
a child is missing.
I scan the car in front of me
and the ones coming toward me.
No matches, but my mind
snags on the trauma of that
kidnapped child.
The radio voice returns with
an update on Covid cases,
the plight of flooding victims in the
South and burned-out residents
in California.
I know so much more
than my grandfather did,
with his daily hometown newspaper.
I can’t do much more—
I just know more.
That’s a good thing, I suppose,
but my palms stick to the steering wheel.
What did my therapist say about
breathing when I’m anxious?
I don’t see the greening fields or
grazing cattle, don’t hear
the soothing hum of the motor.
I’m dealing with
the tornado in Oklahoma,
the coup in Haiti, the active
shooter in Colorado.
Lorraine Jeffery delights in her closeup view of the Utah mountains after spending years managing public libraries. She has won poetry prizes in state and national contests and published over one hundred poems in various journals and anthologies, including Clockhouse, Kindred, Calliope, Canary, and Ibbetson Street.
