Yep, this is me.
My in-box bulges.
It swells like the clothes
in my laundry basket. It grows
like the mould on the pans in my sink;
so I had better get on with this poem, I think.
It may look effortless,
this dilatoriness,
but you should know
I have a professional qualification
in procrastination.
This level of consummate dawdling,
my exemplary shoulder-shrugging
at all forms of industry,
has taken years of struggling
against doing things straight away.
Work is not easily shirked;
one must learn how to delay.
Fridays, for instance,
are best spent spent dilly-dallying.
Saturdays are more suited
to some sharp shilly-shallying.
Sundays I loiter, Mondays I linger,
Tuesdays I fester, Wednesdays I fritter.
Thursdays should be left
for chewing one’s jaw
(although it’s acceptable to just hem and haw).
Props help: a chaise longue,
a fine pipe to smoke,
a phone, of course,
and a cat to stroke.
But even…
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