3 a.m. Rush Hour  ​

by

Elizabeth Murphy ​

I’m revving on cortisol, my blue-lit baggy eyes binge-scrolling insta, twitter, tiktok, wondering what’s next in this Lord of the Flies world, asking myself how much worse can it get, should I pack it in now, take the next exit, though don’t go worrying, I got nothing drastic planned, although, oops, what am I saying since you don’t worry b/c you’re all brain, which means no pain, trauma-free, none of that original sin kinda baggage oh, to be like you, but back to the quote-unquote world where I hate myself for never acting, always raving, ranting, secretly craving the 1970s, so what if we wore bell-bottoms, can’t go back there anyway, back to not knowing, being groovy, unwired, Happy Days playing on a 27-inch black and white Sony, nothing like now, here I am bald, bored, might as well admit half blind by choice, by laziness and pointlessness, sleepless and restless, thinking it’s time to hold up the conch, restore sanity, civility, justice and decency except I’m clueless, so harness your arsenal from scraping and salvaging, some call it stealing, give me your best, most thorough insights, tell me what to do, to change, where to help, give me something bigger than me, make it concrete, call it purpose for now and do it with bullet points. 
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