Adulting the hours away,
getting the show on the road,
trying to recreate hygge
in my own home. I avert my eyes
from the talking heads on TV;
coulrophobia was always my weakness.
Now I’m justified, clowns juggle
alt-right balls, for the cruel
amusement of the deluded masses.
I thought I was doing well, scaling
the glass cliff, not looking down.
Latinx-looking and female,
the Brexiteers are gunning for me.
I’d expected vertigo but not
bullets. Maybe a chatbot, programed
insurgent, could realign our forces and
being woke shake out our damned
trances, to fight for a new day, post haste.