The Zoom Choir of My Living Room

I tried to sing with the choir today,
but my cat staged a rebellion.

Her tail swept the coffee cup aside,
spilling brown constellations
across the floor.

The neighbor’s dog barked at the alto,
my laptop froze mid-forte,
and the hymn unraveled
like ribbon caught in a ceiling fan.

We rehearsed inside ten minutes
that felt like eternity:
each note wobbling
between seraph
and barnyard goose.

Still, my lungs lifted.

Above the bandwidth
a single note hovered, trembling,
waiting
to be noticed.

Premiums in the Sky

My insurance card arrived today,
folded like a paper crane
carrying promises
I cannot unfold.

The letters are always polite:
Your claim cannot be processed.

I listen to the silence
between automated phone rings,
each hold-time heartbeat
a drum of patient despair.

Healthcare policy wavers
like a kite in uncertain wind.

Meanwhile premiums rise:
helium balloons
no one can reach.

The doctor smiles apologetically
and hands me a bill
shaped like Everest.

So I write a poem instead,
because my elbow still bends,
my lungs still want air,
and hope hides somewhere
between deductibles
and the strange arithmetic
of paying
to be denied.

The Glass of Trust

I used to believe trust
was a solid thing:

a glass you could fill
straight from the tap.

Now the faucet sputters.

Promises drip slowly
through hairline cracks
no one noticed
when the pipes were new.

Each speech pours another inch
of promise:
clear and confident,

yet by morning
the glass sits empty.

The mailbox offers explanations:
thick envelopes,
carefully folded apologies.

I wonder when authority
became so fragile:

a paper crown
creased too many times.

Still, I keep a glass
on the kitchen table.

Not because I trust the faucet.

But because someday
someone may repair the pipes
and water,
honest water,
might return.

The Debt Ceiling Waltz

America borrowed tomorrow:
yesterday laughed
at the receipt.

Across the ocean
Europe sips espresso calmly
while debt glides past
in a tuxedo stitched from bonds.

I try counting the numbers
but they slip from my fingers:
pirouetting columns,
interest rates humming
in languages
no calculator can translate.

We wade through spreadsheets
thicker than fog.

Even the sky seems to debate
fiscal policy.

Meanwhile we balance carefully
on a national ledger
that creaks beneath
the quiet weight
of tomorrow’s borrowed dreams.

The Secret Life of Church Bulletins

The bulletin whispers secrets:

Potluck tonight:
bring mystery casserole.

Someone has drawn a dragon
on page three,
baptized in blue crayon.

I fold the pages neatly,
pretending I read
every announcement,

while the choir rehearses
a hymn
I can hum
without understanding.

The pastor smiles
from the pulpit.

Perhaps he sees everything:
every mispronounced word,
every hidden sigh,
every silent prayer
scribbled in the margins

of this small weekly document
trying its best
to keep a congregation together.

David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and physician whose work turns quiet attention toward the small, telling moments of modern life. His poems explore faith, technology, and human perception with wit, grace, and a sometimes wry eye. He is drawn to the ordinary that hints at the extraordinary, seeking resonance in both the subtle and the surprising.

Cover art by Levi Matthews
Connect on Instagram @levimatthews.artist or on his website, LeviMatthewsArtist.com.