folding t-shirts

there is this tiny place way down in my solar plexus
where things like wistful singing, jagged sunsets, the birth of babies,
sincere laughter and evil wrongdoings live.
it fills and empties like a tight little bladder
waiting for and triggered by signs of the apocolypse
all seven signs:
a heaving sigh, restless fingertips, dark eyes,
thinking about you, abandoning pretention, forgetting laws,
typical city traffic,
that kind of thing.
i am trying in my way to both nuture and quell every vitreous humour
that attempts to fill that little physiological sac
as it inflates, i'm drastic
a poetess, impulsive and frightening, flooding the world with feeling and
crying herself to sleep, begging for heart agony, for jealous retribution,
for living severe hollywood romance.
as it deflates, i'm sensible
filled with terror and superstition, pragmatically neverminding the signals
and investing nothing but money, effort, and time,
doing the right thing by puritanical standards.
either way
i'll win, i figure.