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  • I know I've other things to do,
    some household chores, won't take too long
    but here I sit, this empty page has chained me to this desk
    tied me to this chair, refuses to release me
    until I've written something.

    My bladder now demands I rise,
    yet here my fingers rest on keys,
    unable to comply, I tense my muscles,
    and continue on. What was it I was thinking?
    It was just there a moment ago.

    Oh, well. It will come back again. It always does,
    while I am packing up the trash
    or vacuuming the carpet or doing one of several chores
    that I have yet to do. Of course, without a pen and pad,
    it will escape me once again.

    All done. The house is dusted, vacuumed,
    trash collected, set out in the alley
    with the yard waste bags for weekly collection.
    Showered, shaved, redressed.
    And rested. Much longer than I thought or had intended.

    Back to this daunting and uncertain task of poetry.
    I was there again, I know it was,
    as I was dusting desk and cupboard full of bells,
    and window sills and bookshelves,
    and vacuuming the living room.

    Too late to start the bottom drawer,
    the final hiding place of ancient documents
    must wait until tomorrow. A psalm to do, but
    dinner to be made, pork slices sauteed, spaghetti squash,
    creamed corn. Arrayed with condiment and trimmings.

    What was it I was going to say?
    It seems this day was filled
    with chores and restful sleep, less restful
    to awake to silence when there should be sound.
    The rhythm of my life is broken.

    ~Fred~ 103012
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