Diagnosis

The house is quiet enough to hear the wood

settling into its own stiff joints and beams.

I’m poking at a spot where things aren't good,

feeding the engine of my worst-case dreams.

The blue light of the screen turns skin to ghost,

lighting up the knuckles of a shaking hand.

I search the symptoms I fear the most

and find a grave in every distant land.

A forum post from someone long since dead

explains the way the final system fails.

I lay the phone down on the unmade bed

and feel the hammer looking for the nails.