These days I fear I will never get it all done. Never enough time to drink up the sky and sweep the hallway floor. My car tires never seem to have enough air. I slip quarters in to the slots to pay for a condensed version of what chaps my hands or fills my lungs, depending. But never both at the same time. When I figure out how to laugh out loud in the grocery store, I forget the cream for the coffee.
My laundry sits folded, at the bottom of my bed, while I'm up top with a chorus of "Yes!" to the still blank walls and empty room. Song writing is life writing. I'll take notes on advice I'll never forget. But he can claim that title of artist with a bedtime at 2am and the gym at noon. While my black suit hangs behind my closet door. I'll have yogurt for lunch tomorrow. And a frozen meal for dinner. But not cream in my coffee. Or the mind that's still enough to say, 'this is how I feel,' not, 'this is what I think.'
The ironing will go undone and the alarm will sound too early. I'll lose myself in work I believe in. Correct the dangling preposition. Lose myself. Fix the "world" without noticing how blue the sky is today.
