rubber-banding the horizon,
we snap awake— alive
in the afterglow of jittery headlines.
rebirthed from yesterday’s ashes of alarm,
we plaster bright-blue stickers on every forecast.
coffee chorus hums beyond the newsroom siege,
the weirdly wonderful seeps into streetlamps,
as lawn chairs negotiate peace treaties with sticky-sweet birdcalls.
bulletin boards ditch the red-alert sirens,
holding aloft rainbows like steadfast banners.
upheld by our laughter, the bulletins lighten:
“Sunshine at 100%—joy guaranteed.”
today’s headline reads only our own hearts beating,
Sunday Fun-Day, unstoppable, infinite.
—where every “last call doom” rewrites itself into a carnival horn.
.