Not Writing

Not Writing


Sitting here at the desk

writing and not writing,

wronging, you might say,

there is the sound of traffic

rolling through the window,

continuous wheels

on the road that leads

everywhere and nowhere.

I sit and listen

because it’s easier not to do

than it is to do,

and though the days are passing faster

and time is getting shorter

and everything is lesser and lesser,

I am finding it easier not to do

with every passing day.

Perhaps that’s the answer,

the reason why I’m here

in this hutch of a house

surrounded by other rabbits

looking at the headlights of life.

Here, and not in another place

with land and space and privacy,

somewhere warm and fine and happy.

It’s because I’m so good

at not writing,

isn’t it?

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