and slits of eyes, blinking twice,
filled with hope, that I should clean
the lint from a filter, mow the lawn
that has grown long, like the stubble
on cheeks, which should be shaved.
By noon I have come to know again
the insidious nature of my obsessions
news checked up, cards restacked,
all caught on my twittering friends
but the table is still dusty and plates
don’t stack themselves. I’ve wasted
too many hours on some serial series
and none of the making of the bed.
These devices, lets call them sins
call to me, suggest they would do best
with my first energy. I should compose
at the break of dawn, meditate, write
a letter to my friends in celebration
or in trouble. But once, twice, thrice
I check my mail, play in some virtual
world, when I know I should be cooking
rice, keep a calendar for my investments.
I needn’t schedule times for my vice.