Ignoring today’s prompt; writing a pastoral poem doesn’t interest me.
The shadow of the chair in the morning sun,
like a lion about to strike.
The warmth and the distraction
remind me I have things to do.
Sounds come in from off the streets outside;
the roar of the traffic ebbs and flows.
The skies are bright and the future uncertain;
there are so many things I have to do.
The shapes of the words on the page confound me;
my innermost thoughts are a surprise.
Construction machinery beeps from across the street,
reminding me I’ve things to do.
I can barely hear the song that’s playing right now,
but I don’t know it well anyway.
Shortly the last chord will decay into silence,
leaving me with the things I have to do.
But now what will I do?
(22 April 2013)