Wasteful Thursday


in my workshop, there are a great many pens
markers highlighters and different kinds of paper
from parchment down to newsprint. I should
be about my business creating . . . something,
anything really . . . but instead I’m whiling away
my day in blank recognition of nothing.
cold draft beneath the window, which I’ve cracked
because the landlord keeps the furnace going
far too long and too hot for my tastes, and it feels
like snow but the sky in its stingy miserdom
withholds, perhaps tomorrow? But now I weary
at the thought, at all thought, and refuse industry
for the rest of the day. later I shall write sonnets
to a kentucky vixen who pines for me there.

David M Pitchford
8 Dec 2011

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