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The world wobbling on an axis
of apocalypse, the TV host declares
the night’s top story is the horror
of a starlet who shaved her head.

Behind you, the cat begins to puke:
not just a single hork-hork-blorf, but
a comet of vomit, a fishstinky hairball
streak hurling from room to room

in some frantic purgatory anxiety.
You sigh, suffer mutely, stare
at the tube, pray for the weather
and ponder the razor.

 

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