Not the small ads

Sometimes there is too much news
it wads our brains with wet newsprint
and we flip from one tragedy to the next
skipping to the anecdotal
the lost cats and golden wedding anniversaries.

Sometimes there is so much news
we make it into paper planes
and toss the misery into the sky
watch it nose dive among the daisies.

But sometimes it sits on our head,
an incubus
wrapping its arms about our neck
a hand over our eyes and it whispers

This is for you
aimed with the precision of a missile
close your eyes if you want
I’m coming ready or not.