Panic

My heart is making a ticking.
It's not a sound
I would want to hear in a bomb.
Still, bombs can be defused,
but a sky that's falling
surely falls.

Confused as my poor old dog,
I get lost at familiar corners,
though I can run
out the door until I'm out of breath
and can run no more.

If I find no shelter,
I can always crawl back to my house.
It is on a slab.
Or, in the back, dig a hole, put on a hat,
climb in
and put up an umbrella.

There should they find me.
I will scratch and kick and bite.
I will fight back
before a heart attack can fell me.
They will know, yes, they will know,
even if they laugh.