The House That Plague Built

And what does this mean for me, you ask,
Or for those I care most for, my kind?
You ask this day to day, hour to hour,

Each bit of news, each change in the air,
From a heat wave to a crash in oil,
From a plague to a gun in your face.

What does this mean for me? Should I do
The thing I’ve dreamed of, the thing I feared,
The thing that I do most of the time?

Did a car just ram you at the light?
Is that a cop, a pink slip, a coup?
Is that a chance to flee? Can you move?

Now what’s that ex of yours gone and done?
Now what are they out of at the store?
What blew up? Which woods burn? Where’s the war?

What does it all mean for me? What’s next?
You scheme, but for the most part you guess.
Each guess is the means to all the rest.