Poetry

115.

Will there be a place
for all the hours that I misplace
with this mask upon my face?

I apologize for the shoddy rhymes,
but I’ve spent too much time
playing Sudoku on my computer
and avoiding remote work.
I really need to get a hold of myself,
lest I forget what it means to sweat.

No work and all distraction
makes Jack an anxious boy.
“I’ll do extra work tomorrow,
I’ll
put in extra hours this weekend.”
What is a weekend nowadays, anyway?
I’ve sent the same general email to my people two weeks in a row:

Sorry, I took [insert random weekday here] off to recuperate,
I’ll work this weekend to make up for it.

I still haven’t worked on the weekend.
But I’m something like twenty hours behind now, so,
here’s to the weekend warrior I will now summon into my being.

I’m forgetting,

I’m

forgetting what it felt like to be productive.
What is that feeling?
How do I know when I’ve done enough?

I didn’t know
I needed people so badly,
but it seems
I can’t keep myself on task alone, I can’t
keep myself on task by myself, I can’t
summon the willpower necessary to even maintain a rough schedule anymore.

I stay up late
I sleep in
I respond to emails hours after they entered my inbox
I play Animal Crossing in the middle of the day
I half-heartedly do sit-ups
I make a bowl of soup with a scowl
I relish the minute it takes to walk to the dumpster
and toss the trash in it
I am sick of my excuses
I am sick of my hiding places
I am sick of my defenses
I miss being anxious for a good reason
I miss being vulnerable
I miss real people
I miss checking in with my coworkers
I miss laughing about random bullshit in the company of other people
I miss the office
dear God, I miss the office
I think I miss driving
I miss shitty fast food escapades
I miss walking to the corner store without a mask on
I miss real faces
I miss real voices
I miss expressing doubts about the efficacy of my choices
I miss
I miss
I miss
fuck,

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