I'm never sleeping, I'm too busy keeping
track of all the ways they say I might die: a
turbulent airplane, the shuddering L train,
a sudden flood of brake lights on I-5.
My heart rate gets nervous, your phone is out of service.
I'm sweating all the things I could have done while I
stand on the corner, eyeing all the foreigners,
like I straight up forgot where I come from.

I'm never sleeping, I'm too busy keeping
track of all the things that could go wrong while
young turks, they line up, the hackles on their spines up,
across from riot cops stretched ten blocks long. And in
satellite photos, some scorched patch of Earth shows
tyrants erecting statues of themselves.
I tape up windows just to practice, cash stashed in the mattress,
and a year of bottled water on my shelves.

Tom Brokaw's talking about a dirty bomb.
I got another call from my poor mom.
I lie awake, with one hand on your back—
I'm never sleeping, I'm still keeping track.