"Things you can do in 85 Seconds," a poem by J.R. Solonche

(Bulletin of Atomic Scientists Sets Doomsday Clock to 85 Seconds to Midnight, Jan. 29, 2026)

Boil a cup of water in a modern microwave.
Tie both shoes with a deliberate, double-knot of human certainty.

Empty a small kitchen trash bin and replace the liner before the infinite notices.
Hand-grind enough coffee beans for a single sardonic cup.

Take twelve deep breaths, measuring the air as if it were borrowed property.
Wash your hands thoroughly, scrubbing the January salt from your knuckles.

Read three short poems by Solonche.
Write a brief postcard to a neighbor you haven't spoken to in years.

Check the mail, auditing the envelopes for clerical errors.
Wind a manual wristwatch, tightening the spring against the global midnight.

Wind a mechanical kitchen timer, listening to the spring complain about the weight of the future.
Sharpen a single pencil with a manual sharpener, creating a small pile of cedar-scented history.

Roll a pair of socks into a tight, woolly ball,  while the infinite waits at the gate.
Stand perfectly still and count the heartbeats of the house, auditing the quiet between the ticks.

Stare at a crack in the ceiling, wondering if it is a map of a country you haven't visited yet.
Top off the bird feeder, inviting the cardinals to audit the silence with you.

Fold a single road map, battling the creases as if they were the stubborn borders of your own life.
Change a single lightbulb, twisting the glass sun into its socket until the darkness admits defeat.

Rewind a tangled garden hose, coiling the green snake back into its circle of quiet order.
Floss exactly three teeth, a peculiar kind of hygiene for a mouth that is about to be silent.

Trim the wick of a candle, preparing the fire for a room that is already plenty bright.
Find a single typo in an old letter and correct it with a pen that has no more ink.

Scrape the frost from a small corner of the windshield, just enough to see the neighbor’s dog staring at the moon.
Memorize a two-line aphorism by Solonche, a small golden weight for the pocket of the soul.