Shredded pages torn from yellow pads
littered next to neatly stacked piles of
“To Do,” “To File,” and “Too Many Questions.”
A rapid fire Thursday from dawn ’til
the quiet moment in a can of cold pasta at my desk.
Six deliveries, eight pallets of potting soil, twelve invoices,
and one headache,
lasting an approximate eleven hours.
A long day with little inspiration left me,
scrambling like a frightened beetle on a cold bathroom floor,
for words to rhyme.
Words to color, to sensationalize, to seep
like butter smeared on hot bread into the collected senses.
But I’m afraid all I’ve served you is a bland helping