There are dishes and phone calls and tidying up,
there are dreams and nightmares, budgets,
flowers crashing all over the sky and
somehow the writing never does get done.
Chores never end, the body’s needs insatiable, repetitive,
an hour lost in contemplation or grief,
in flights of fancy and of fear,
minutes pour through my fingers and it’s time
to get up for work and
somehow the writing never does get done.
Work is distraction and delay, the hands of the clock
inch forward – tick – tick toward five o’clock
but then there’s the train and shopping and cooking,
battling ants doesn’t really inspire poetry,
a new video has come in the mail and
somehow the writing never does get done.
Events and dramas unfold, winter
has already turned into spring and spring is almost gone,
summer is upon us with its wild, sweaty heat – languid,
rich, long daylight hours bring thoughts of garden parties and vacations and
somehow the writing never does get done.