The Whole Day Off, #93

The morning begins in hope;
a few itches and scratching
down one leg, a few fighting
moments with the warm blankets
trying to squeeze the last drop
of nectar from setting dreams,
and then the handoff of thought
to the planners, their voices
sketching out the broad outlines
of the day.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Clean the workroom.
I’ll sit at the desk this time,
no more lounging in the chair,
laptop warming legs. Sit up
straight like my mom used to say.
More productive, more focused
and more creative that way.
None of this dawdling round
staring blank and dumb into
the empty page.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I’m working.
Committing. On break, I’ll clean
some dishes, pick up the gack
lying on the living room
floor, put in a load of wash,
pick up coats and keys, take out
the trash, sort mail that sits
unopened, keep some, throw out
the junk, pay the bills, vacuum
the carpet when I’m finished.
Then back to the next stanza.

But first to check email,
see what vital messages
have been downloaded over
night. Then, quickly I promise,
just a brief look at the news
of the day. Best to keep up
on world events, politics,
technology, gas prices,
medical cures, who’s dating
who in Hollywood.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp A link
here or there to consider.
After all, it’s only nine
and I have the whole day off
to write, right? Indulge a bit.
Then off to poet. Catch up
on a blog, podcast, download,
software updates, make yourself
a ham and mayonnaise sandwich,
some iced tea.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Settle down in
to the big comfy love seat
in the living room, amidst
piles of one time dirty
socks and jeans and feed my face.
It’s only ten. Soon enough
I’ll get started. Eleven,
noon and still no poem, not
a line, trope, strophe, metaphor.
Just the dishes piling up
while the day tick-tocks away.

By four I’ve wrote nothing; napped,
showered, then realized that
all the good planning escaped
down the drain, into the sink
hole of multimedia,
belly of the consumer
realized the wife will be
pissed and home in two hours,
jot a haiku, tanka, toss
the dishes.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The images,
like this bag of chips, have gone
stale, flaky, must be chucked
in the trash. After a line
it’s too late. Fill dishwasher,
wipe down the counter. Lament
the condition of the sink
in the bathroom. Ponder a
synonym for grungy, dank
poorly kept.
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp At night my wife
has endless stories to tell
and can’t understand why I’m
not listening, why my mind
keeps wandering, why the house
didn’t get cleaned. What did you
do all day, were you writing,
did you pay the bills, did you
do some laundry? No. You just
sat around, laid about. What
are you good for anyway??

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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