I left myself seventeen minutes
of the first day of the year
to write this poem.

It’s only a calendrical moment
of no particular significance
except rent is due.

Fourteen minutes remain
in the day of fresh new possibility
spent watching tv.

Guests came and went, some spent
the night in my place before I did.
And they used the shower.

Twelve minutes left in the day of idle
conversation, coffee and staring.
And now it’s ten.

I gaze over the words and they blur
in defiant chagrin as if they could
be written again.

Just finish this day and get the year
on it’s way to new things and
places to go.

Procrastinators should be patient
and work with the fate they make
or go with the flow.

Four minutes dwindling on the first day
of the calendar and everywhere
I see things change

Three minutes to midnight and the end
of what I’ve only just begun to write.
Blogs make you lazy.

Two minutes wisp away and the poem’s
just bad now; a mercy killing is called for.
Push the button.

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