Static Brain

It's less a river,

more a dozen channels

all playing at once.

A half-remembered lyric,

the grocery list,

the argument from last week

I should have won.

The cost of gas.

A fly buzzing somewhere

inside my skull, not out.

I tried to read the page,

just one paragraph,

but a small, insistent voice

decided then

that the color blue

has too many shades.

And why?

Who cares why?

It’s a broken washing machine,

spinning wet clothes

against the metal drum,

forever off balance,

never quite done.