sitting on fuzz and straw, I'm
heating the house by toaster oven
and eating its avocado-toast surplus.
here hermitting it's easy
to hear the buzz of Tasks,
of To Doing, of production,
and the particular exhaustion of Getting Things Done
that refuses to admit itself, but only cranks
the dial
until I'm doing three things at once; it feels great
until I stop
pick up burnt forgotten toast
and peer at novellas I'd hoped to concentrate
but realize I won't be able to today.
we know well the externalities of production;
but I forget that exigency is among them.
