All my life I’ve asked my master
Why I am unable to choose
This sweet man or fancy shoes
Over this stranger, more difficult lover
And these expensive but practical loafers
And why I am unable to author
A book exhibiting my full potential
And have focused instead on inconsequential
Letters to strange and difficult lovers
Who by my letters were never changed.
I certainly haven’t been constrained
By terrible parents or trauma or poverty
And even if I had it wouldn’t explain
My propensity for misery
Anymore than it would my
Propensity for joy.
Maybe I’m just a procrastinator
As life is a procrastination of death
And each breath just a procrastination of breath
And friends a procrastination of work
And work a procrastination of love
And love a procrastination I’m just not above.