Mito M. Boy

Am I…

Am I relaxing or wasting time?

Who names my act,
you out there or I?


There is the laundry: 2 piles  on the bedroom floor

one darks , one whites, waiting patiently, I might add,

to be washed; their very presence a bore.


There  are dust bunnies of doggie fur

lurking in the corners—hoping for sunlight

to reveal themselves to me—yet I defer.


Dishes to wash—usually a satisfactory task—

sit and sulk in the sink.  The peanut butter

caking; milk painting the bottom of the glass.


I know they are there.

They mount up like ghosts around me

ceaselessly hovering in the air.


The stacks of paper all about call out.  

Read me! Sort me! File me!

I can hear the rustling sound of credit card bills.


Messages to reply, couched on my computer

and the smart fone silently cries: answer all of me!

Really, must I?


It is my mind that listens and decides

I am wanton,  a bad girl…

I should, I could, I ought.


Reset, breathe, let this laziness be my choice,

the frame of the puzzle of my life;

the edge that holds “to do” in place.


I am the namer.  So be it that today

I rest in refreshing stillness

not a naughty willingness to run away.