Exercise Seven

It’s rough to maintain a regular writing schedule.
Sorting through the shifting strata of detritus
Hoping a hand from Heaven reaches down
Pointing the path to a pen or a marker.
Now all I need is a notebook and then
A large cup of coffee; the caffeine’s a salve
To my poor pounding pate, the brain bouncing inside.
Time to think.
The clock’s hand clicks its cadence ticking down
My free minutes. Meager though they are
I had fantasies of filling them with flights of poesy.
Instead I piddled and prepped. Now procrastination
Has sneakily stolen my solitude and real life
Intrudes upon inspiration. My interval of peace
And tranquility is over. Time to tackle the errands,
The choices, the cacophony of channels chattering in my head.
Deliberately and determinedly detaching myself
From the writing I return to the regularly scheduled program
Of my day.


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