On the day I was born
I woke up one morning
at a crossroads
in the middle of a crossfire hurricane
and for once my mind wasn’t occupied
with a song I couldn’t just quite place –
the Beatles? Vending machine jingle?
or a veil of a nightmare about not getting through to someone
or of committing a crime
or of someone being dissected, probably me
or a headache
or someone else’s broken skeleton
or the feeling that I had forgotten something essential
but rather
an earworm
a line from my daughter’s travel blog of her trip through
India and Nepal
read in her own voice
(the earworm)
“I will report you”