Do laundry, eat breakfast,
do dishes, ponder the coming
mail; play guitar and last of all
work on a poem, at least maybe
a piece of one.

That’s my day
and it’s not even eight thirty
and I can’t think of anymore
that needs doing or wants me
to do it. I could read something
or I could close my eyes
against it all, a last defense
to prevent tears or screams.
I could write more, I suppose.
but it takes more energy
than I can spare —

I close my eyes.
One of these days that
will be enough. Today
it’s not. The clothes
need tthe dryer. My eyes
need a dryer. What do I need
apart from doing
what needs to be done?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T