This weekend, I basked in unrepentant sloth:
watched movies, read, blogged and surfed and emailed;
I captured the very essence of laze.
Now this long weekend pulls its closing breath,
toil and bustle are my bunk-mates for the week;
raucous, crude and ignoble beasts.
I’ve little choice in the matter.
As with us all, the basest demands of
our humanity: eat, sleep, warm;
in turn demand industry, the
scutwork of nine-to-five –
thrum-thrum-thrum – and heartbeats
measure seconds in the work-day,
and seconds count the long hours down;
but slowly. The work-week is time’s
opportunity for indolence; it passes sluggishly.
ENOUGH!
It’s little use to bask in my drudgery.
My fingers are neither cracked nor raw
from long days in cotton fields.
I’ve known no days under hot suns,
amidst stinging insects and sugar-cane.
Every step of every day has been my own
and I will allow no regrets to cast
their shadows over the journeys that lay ahead.
The inchworm inches.
Ibsen idly switches
Pavlov’s hitches:
machines to measure men,
not bitches.
A heartbeat frantic twitches;
no pedantic riches halt –
time moves in stitches,
inching inches which is
over time, feet.
The road is lined with ditches,
niches, and is miles long.
Over time, the inchworm inched,
flinched,
and finished;
a journey of a few feet,
yet still –
complete.