SO MUCH TO DO
A holiday weekend.
Three days for family, friends, chores long-deferred.
So many plans. So much to do.
Blood, thrumming. Light, dancing.
Darkness calls to me.
Ice is on my forehead, instead of in a cooler.
I’m physically present.
My mind is elsewhere — in a fog.
Birthdays must still be celebrated.
Must my head still be attached?
The alarm clock tells me my time is up.
So little done, so much to do. Still.
This was written for Carry On Tuesday, which gave the last words spoken by Cecil Rhodes before his death in 1902 (“So little done, so much to do.”) to use within my poem.