fear of the next year

stub
the proverbial toe,
pull
the proverbial
hamstring,
bite your tongue
and it starts.

mutter
your profanities
and pray (trust me, pray)
that it’s only
for the moment.

and if the moment
becomes
the hour,
pray
it’s not the day.

until the day creeps.
it creeps like a
snail
on the lawnmower,
bored
with the shelf,
plotting for the next day.

I pray.