you can't blame everything on the president
I've been eyeing every head of lettuce with a mounting suspicion, reading my phone bill
with a new surliness about the charges appearing there. The stove seems to take forever
to warm up and longer to cool down. In the mornings, I find myself standing numbly
in a fog of hot water, the post-New Year malaise squarely upon me, until I watch clips
of newsroom analysts and then, with rapid-fire surety, relocate the onus of responsibility
elsewhere. Last week, I paused before a refrigerator case at a mid-town deli, deciding
between sandwiches, feeling a sudden burden of choice. I ate without the usual joy.
The bread had dampened in the cold, but I threw the yoke of critique on the shoulders
of a man I've never met, hundreds of miles away from the soggy mess between my hands,
my fingers creased from so much pointing.