Poetry is something that needs time
and energy to feel
rushing through you
out your pen- unto paper
only to be changed again and again
hurried body and brain constrain the flow
but for me,
right now
it's just
deep bone weariness
Bilbo said - like butter spread over too much toast
like old winter snow that turns grey, but doesn't melt away
Like piles of books
each one with assignments due
in your backpack
trudging wearily home
Friday after five
like time has sped up and you're standing still
like when you escape to a tropical island for your first break in years
and you spend all three days napping
like you haven't had time to clean up one thing your toddler did to
your house this month
the ominous of it feels oppressive
floors unswept
recycling overflowing
crayons on every wall
toilet paper unrolled
books that have been scissored
half eaten apples
unwashed dishes
hide in the couch
handprints in jelly decorate your windows
But at least I did the laundry
broken crayons litter the floor
like a coat worn all winter
without being washed
mittens smelling of gasoline
hair permanently mated
shaped as your hat
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