My apathetic moods cut time in half.
At noon I paint my nails, and sit, and yawn—
And all at once it’s seven and I laugh,
And wonder where the afternoon has gone.
At eight, I’ve finished laughing, and intend
To be productive, as I know I ought.
Instead I look at photos of a friend,
And finally at nine, give work a shot.
My fingers on the keys, inert as fish
Upon a plate, or broccoli, or beans.
I stare, pathetic, at the page, and wish
The words would write themselves, onto the screen.
Eleven thirty, still, my passion lacks.
I mount the stairs to find a little snack.