It seems I should start the day
With thankfulness,
checking off the boxes on my gratitude list.
House. Central heat. Water. Flannel sheets.
Etcetera. But all I really want
is to grumble about how my brain kept me up
last night with
all those songs and craft ideas and book projects
and wondering if I would even have the strength to
get up on time because
did I
even get enough sleep at all?
It is a greedy and immature bastard,
my brain, being the cause of
my own worry
so often.
I mean, really
if it had only had these ideas
just two hours earlier
I could’ve done something about them
instead of wasting my time
reading a magazine
or Facebook.
But instead, like a needy child
it chooses
to keep me awake
with its litany of requests
that can’t wait until morning.
Should I write that idea down?
What if I forget that chore, that connection?
Will it all fall apart
if I don’t
do it all
myself?
These ideas are like rare butterflies
that if not caught and pinned down
will fly away
never to be seen again
by me
and will probably alight upon
someone
else’s head.
Or so they try to tell me.
Maybe they are just a bit of
sausage and scallop pizza eaten
just a little too late at night
as usual.
betsybeadhead 