No Idle Hands

Every day I’m surprised by the diversity and relative insanity of Life
And how these are mirrored by my job.
I fill out a CPS report about one of my girls with a bruised cheek.
Twenty minutes later, I’m leading the Hokey Pokey
Or creating a prototype of a construction paper cat’s face mask.
Then I’m drinking a Mountain Dew,
Chatting on the phone,
Casting on for a scarf.
(I doubt I’ll get far. My recent track record for anything besides dishcloths hasn’t been great.)
I’m talking to my boyfriend.
We’re discussing Norv Turner, farm subsidies, illegal aliens and how to get jobs for the homeless.
Occupying my hands and brain keeps me from sitting and thinking.
It means I don’t have time to start crying.
There’s very little chance to feel helpless about my inability to do anything
For my friend and the man she loves except hold good thoughts
And send up a prayer
And hope that God is not likewise keeping Himself busy
Or will, at least, set his Solitaire deck aside to listen and pay attention.

Poet’s note: I still have the same feelings but this is not a new poem. I left that job and haven’t dated in two years. Two years today, as a matter of fact, my boyfriend and I split up. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

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