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.