Know that I’m supposed to be cleaning
There are ants in the kitchen
Lines of tiny, moving black dots
Moving around my counter top
Under the baseboard
Inside the sink
But I’d rather write
And feel my fingers moving across the keyboard
let lines of black words forming
Across the white screen
Know that I’m supposed to continue that chapter eight of my novel
And move the plot along
Build some tension and climb toward a climax
But I’m stuck in the act
And want to escape into poetry
Know that I want to achieve so many things
That my little business of maintaining life is an impediment
I’d rather muse on what to do
To control—or permit my protagonist to go where she’s heading
What she wants out of life
how she can move from here to there
Without leaping off the pages
and leave the readers aghast and confounding
At her disappearing act.
Is it a plot twist?
The author’s craft not fully developed?
Or is it simply the process of life?
As disorganized and compulsive as the heart and mind a living person allows
Free to wipe her sweaty brow
And execute a closing bow
The curtain falls
Time to clean up!