there it is, the line

and we are not the smug ones

smirking today over brunch

no, for us, the race is on

cross-country, in the rough

hacking with pens like machetes

through this bristling, sucking

undergrowth of paperwork

that bays around us.

how does it come to this?

every year, astonished that

left alone for the merest moment

(or unadmitted month or two or more)

these receipts and forms and memos

tangle into snarls resistant

to all known spread sheets.

the sun is out, a winged thing

taunts there, against the window

even the insects are stretching their limbs

in spring’s long awaited glow

but here, we have miles to go

before we reach

that blessed exhalation.

we toil on, darkly swearing

that next year, we shall be the ones

we gnash at now, smirking over brunches

speaking of impending refunds

all that pirate gold.

but enough. it is there, the line

mocking my poetry for what it is

procrastination, my underbelly

time to suck it up and file.

it is there, the line. i must get across.

excelsior!