I apologize in advance for the dishes
left to soak through my conscience, hamper
overflowing with dirty regret, month-old bills hanging
around like bad influences.
Cobwebs mock me from above, spiders
swing their high wire acts past spotlight beams
of a dusty circus, and the cat rustles up some
Tomorrow it’s back to another kind of work, but
I can’t wrap my mind around piles of mending
and self-help books hopelessly holed up on my dresser,
a leaky faucet dripping apathy.
Instead, I play Nick Drake songs while time checks
my pulse, follows the light around my house, sips
an early hour glass of amber contrition and
hopes the sun won’t set.
I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. We may be able to live without poetry, but who would want to?