There is dust on
the wall.
I watch it hang in
little wisps.
I’m distracted by
everything.
All of it.
The small and large
items of life have me
chasing my tail, and avoiding
the pen.
I postpone writing, like I’m
ending a bad relationship.
I avoid the tough
conversation.
I dance with impotence and
procrastination, like they are
lovely women.
I need to write.
I must create.
But there is an
antagonist at work in the
trivial details of my
existence.
It smells like copper.
It hides the ink from
my mind.
It would rather I do
anything else:
promote
market
masturbate
dream
sleep
eat
watch TV
or sometimes,
just stare at the
dust on the wall.