Occupation

I used to worry that I wouldn't have enough to do with all my free time. I could not have been more wrong. Now, I make do with what minutes and hours (more often the former than the latter) I can grasp. It makes it difficult to find time to write even one short poem during the week; hence, this six-line runt churned out fifteen minutes ago.


Occupation

I've hurtled through the week
like a careening cannon ball,
too worn to write or speak
and so the pen and paper fall
asleep and silent, meek
as I, but ready at my call.