Sleepy In The Afternoon

Football and baseball
and racing are on TV.
I’m sleepy in the afternoon.
I have no motivation
for anything at all.

Dancing, moving;
those are nothing,
but poetry?
That’s something,
something to be damned;
poetry is something;
I can feel it and so
I have damnable motivation
for it.

I’m sleepy in
the afternoon
and if I were a god,
I’d give this afternoon away
to the highest achiever,
give them something to chew on.
Something like a poem
biting in back, the back of the head,
into the part that makes poems.

I don’t wish it on myself.
Rather stay here
in the vacant room
with the vacant games
and be sleepy all afternoon
and into tomorrow,
or beyond.

Poems seem like
a waste of my time.
I’m afraid of them;
feel them
wasting me away.

I’m no god;
that’s for certain,
for real,
and for true.
I’m just a shame of a poet
sleeping away
this wasted afternoon,
and the night, and tomorrow,
and every tomorrow
after that one. Better
that way, I think;
certainly, I’d like
to find out.

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