At Friday night candlelit hot yoga,

we are routinely invited

to put ourselves in imposs

                                              ible

                        posit

io

                                                  ns.

 

We hold imaginary pencils between our shoulders,

and we let the wet weight of the world roll off us like boulders.

 

Tonight, when it was over, the floor was awash –

hot puddles of frustration and irritation.

A sizzling sweat-swimming pool of worry

over the presidential inauguration.