being done

the daily endeavor
occupies all
the brain ticks
and itches
full with lists for doing
provokes the motions
of laundering and dusting
scrubbing and scratching
and i try
hard as i might
to sense the poetry
in all this doing,
but the lens self-focused
cannot seem
to extract the words
from me
even in slow motion
on treads tight as tendrils
or sinewy ribbons pulled by inches
from out my mouth and eyes
my fingers sense no vacancy
fit for the literary occupant
they flinch and flail
the monday through friday
and a life full of traffic
and conversations full of pretext
of unwritten rules
and the under-written
of this modern life

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