doing nothing

perhaps doing nothing has a certain nobility
permission not to sift through all the possibilities
assessing the value of this versus that, as if we
would be rewarded in the end for productivity.
dogs don't worry about such things.
I listened to a poet on NPR on the way to work,
her poem sounded hard to write, carefully edited,
a labored work, I hope her words are remembered.
mine will not, as they are not even read today
they will not be read in the future
even I don't read them after they are written.
I am doing nothing right now but writing,
sipping a cold tea, having written labored sentences
in French, that I love.

Collecting dust

just a dust collects underneath the bed

so does it settle onto poems,

resurrected, it asks to be heard again:

The flowers

Red, wilted

Lay on the floor

Poking out of a 

Slightly crumpled 

Brown paper sack.

They were no doubt 

For someone,

Asking forgiveness.

They never arrived.

Patiently waiting

She smells chicken fat.

She knows that behind the screen

is a pot full of chicken and if she waits

She knows

She knows that the screen will open

and a plate, maybe even a pot,

will appear, smeared in chicken fat.

She knows all this so she can wait

patiently, persistently behind the screen

Good things come to those who wait.