My former boss said, “You worry too much.” I’ve known I worry about things more than I should. I worry about what I’m going to eat for lunch, and dinner. I worry about deadlines, frown lines, and trusting someone to save my spot when I get out of line.

I worry about getting fat, becoming too thin, the pimple on my chin, and morn my dog’s death although he’s still living.

My brain works overtime like a red churning riverboat paddle, a hamster in a wheel sticking its head out only to break its neck. Snowball was his name.

I’m needlessly worrying about upcoming events in which I have no control. So to relieve some anxiety, not to participate, I went to an open mic to watch the creativity of others; a one man band with googly eyes and a crooked smile in suspenders playing an accordion with tambourine jingles on his shoelaces, a magician that slipped and wrecked a $1 bill into my wallet, committing a felony so I wouldn’t, a clarinet & singing duet, and other poets nervous like me.

“Anyone else?” was asked multiple times, but I kept quiet, until the last moment. I came unprepared, yet the urge to share what I couldn’t with the one who it was intended, instead trusted kind, accepting strangers with my vulnerable heart.

I felt I needed to introduce myself, stating my degrees and that I was nervous and then some.

After reading my two poems, I spoke to the clarinet duo and received some advice. I was cautioned that by announcing how anxious I was I would only make it worse.

“I talk too much,” I responded. “I should just shut up and read.”

“Do that,” as she put on her coat and smiled.

I sit in my car relaxed. It’s raining. I can’t wait until the next one.