Secure enough
in your person 
to fall comfortably asleep
trusting you’ll
awaken refreshed;

comfortable enough
in your home
that you do not fear 
steps in the night,
flashing lights, the sound of
official insistence upon
your yielding,
having to put all your hope
into a skin-saving
bow and scrape;

settled enough
with the Accepted Backstory
being correct
that you stop listening to 
urgent offers and pleas
for changes in the narrative;

empty enough
of empathy
to get by
all the time, all
the livelong day,
with the news 
being no more
than a buzz, a fly
you can brush aside,
a petty interruption;

easy enough
for your head to be always
shaking off
the daily showers of blood
as if they were nothing
but warm spring rain.