The dishes from
last night’s dinner
fill the sink and
unfolded in a basket,
waiting to be put back
on the couch to protect
the upholstery from
cat hair and spills and warm you
as needed; there’s a cat already
sleeping on them, of course.
Just this once, maybe,
leave everything as is? Sure.
That’s you. Unfinished business.
You are that. Guilty as charged.
You are the One
grounded in worry and incompletion.
Every letter of your writing is unfinished.
Your hands quit on you
long before your guitar did.
Your bridges smolder but look
safe enough to recross. Of course
there’s a government to topple
and a culture to unlearn
but with furniture to protect
and dishes to do where will the time
come from? Not from anywhere,
it appears. Chop wood and carry water,
then drop the armload on the way
into the hearth and home and
spill the water where it will leave
the biggest stain. You have
formed around looking at
leftover chores and saying
it’s enough to have started,
but you know better even as you
lie back and close your eyes to it all.
You know sleeping will heal nothing.
It’s been forever since you made it through the night.
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