Musing on Claustrophobia in a Snowstorm

She's soft like pastels in a water color muddle,

determined to the fault line;

cracking open, tearing closed.

She's breaking, then crying,

then sobbing with anger.

Then a commercial for Lenscrafters

as I bear passive witness on the couch.

My walls breathe down on me;

sponge-painted, closing in.

Snow bound and fear bound and thought bound

and wound taunt to tearing.

Fury.

Seething.

Shaking.

The tectonic plates shift beneath

a calm disposition as I smile, agreeable.

Seething.

And strapped into distraction from all that,

watching Aquos and Macintosh

play substitute for life.