Sunday

It is on Sunday when I pretend to work
I wake up early in the morning and I
compile tasks on paper.
It is to be taken seriously, you know?

After two hours of what started out as
checking the weather reports, the children
of Mtv are finally "Made."
Into what? I ask.

The sun in my room hits the left side
of my face and Eddie Vedder's voice
hits my right ear. I haven't
done a damn thing but turn the radio on.

I wrote six poems, read one guidebook
for Cuba, and cleaned my bookshelf.
I did nothing that merits sweat.
Congratulations to me.

I dove into a lunch time movie starring
Nicholas Cage. I'm not going to Cuba soon
Nor do I have new books for my now
clean bookshelf

But those six poems required something
great. I used the paper, the ink from my
pen, the power from my left hand
to give to those six poems and it's okay.

To create something truly great
some things have to be sacrificed
If all the work of Sunday had to be
let go. . . then so be it.