A Poem Written When I Should Have Been Doing Other Things

My in-box bulges.
It swells like the clothes
in my laundry basket. It grows
like the mould on the pans in my sink;
so I had better get on with this poem, I think.

It may look effortless,
this dilatoriness,
but you should know
I have a professional qualification
in procrastination.

This level of consummate dawdling,
my exemplary shoulder-shrugging
at all forms of industry,
has taken years of struggling
against doing things straight away.

Work is not easily shirked;
one must learn how to delay.

Fridays, for instance,
are best spent spent dilly-dallying.
Saturdays are more suited
to some sharp shilly-shallying.
Sundays I loiter, Mondays I linger,
Tuesdays I fester, Wednesdays I fritter.
Thursdays should be left
for chewing one’s jaw
(although it’s acceptable to just hem and haw).

Props help: a chaise longue,
a fine pipe to smoke,
a phone, of course,
and a cat to stroke.

But even then,
not everyone can procrastinate
with such application like me.
I have a vocation
for vacillation, you see.

Anyway, I shall finish this poem later.
I need to re-check the light
in the refrigerator.

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