Maybe

In this dreary moment,
feeling stung by things undone,
by unwrapped and unused time 
left behind by circumstance
or neglect, or perhaps through ignorance
of its importance, I will myself
off of my wrecked couch
to salvage something of it — 
and find nothing’s left.  So instead,
though I suspect it will not matter, I sit
and write about it.  Maybe
that will redeem me, make it 
worthwhile.  Maybe I can convince myself
of my own industry through that
all-too-easy effort.  Maybe I’m not
as useless as I feel, after all.

Maybe I’m not a liar, either.