Threat Level: Orange (poem)

There should be a name
for this kind of anxiety --
thick, bogged, damp souled,
half crazed, three quarters
full of serendipity. Do I care,
do I not, and how much?
And how hot? This burn
is cooling after such strange
release of carbonated
froth -- a foaming at the mouth
of the cave of thought.
So stop. Thinking
it's all gonna be ok, well,
who's to say? Who decides
what color goes with what threat
level? I am a terrified woman
inside a confident suit
of armor. Who gets in.
Who gets out. Who
gets it at all.