My Paranoia

— Dennis Richardson

It’s easy to get confused in the dark,
given my age, given that my new progressive
bifocals go dark in sunlight, which reminds me
of my paranoia, when my mind goes dark,
like when I hear things like: financial problems
going global, economies going postal,
then I see and say things in the darkness, like: who’s that
at the window saying the Dow is down?
And who’s that man playing the French horn while the frogs,
not the French, are in cold-water pots, being cooked
not knowing it because that’s how frogs are,
not the French. Frogs will stay there not feeling the darkness,
the heat rising, until they’re stewing in their own juices,
until it’s too late, like the people I mentioned earlier,
confused in the dark. I come out of my spell only to find
darkness everywhere having wandered out into the sunlight.
Now I’m worried about us stewing in our own juices
not unlike what’s happening to the frogs, and the French.
I want to warn the town there’s a bear loose in the streets
I just want them to stop, not kill, the bear or is it the bull.
It’s either a bear or a bull, I never know which one
it is but we have to save the frogs, I mean the French.
No I don’t mean the French, I mean, I want to save them too,
but they’re not the frogs I’m talking about. Oh, who am I
talking about? Oh no. Here comes the sun.
It’s getting dark.

One thought on “My Paranoia

  1. Oh, the places we go with your poetry, Dennis! This, after all, is not so much a poem about paranoia or anything in particular, but a work of digression. An idea leads to another and winds and turns from frogs to French. You’re crazy… like a fox.

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