I panicked today.
Not the kind of panic
where your heart trips,
stops, skips back into place.
Not the kind of panic
where you wonder how you'll
get through the task set before you
that grips you, seems to
strip you of your dignity
and forces to the forefront
that childhood fear of speaking to strangers
that you tucked so neatly
behind your lungs.
I panicked today.
I looked at my car note
and it looked at me and it spoke.
It said: this is all there is for you.
That house you hoped for? Loan.
That car? That higher education? Loans.
Debt for credit, financial prestige,
none of which are worth much of anything
at your age, in this economy?
Nope, not a chance.
Those 2.5 kinds you wanted are expensive.
They need cribs, clothing, companionship.
They'll say they need a dog, a cat, or a hamster.
They need good schooling
and daycare costs money, too.
They need, they need, they need --
Its paper-thin, mechanical voice echoed away.
I looked at the car note,
a makeshift crystal ball,
and I panicked.
In retrospect, this psychological
self-destruction had been expected.
Years of watching one-sided pundits
spew half-thought out predictions
of the fall of the nation
through my up and coming generation
(not once taking into account
the effects of that Great Recession
on my peers' and my collective depression.
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