I Refuse To Be Hurried
Come in and type practical side urges me
I laugh my petootsie off
IT'S TIME! Type A screams in my ear
I roll my eyes in disgust at being pressured
Sixty-seven degrees outside today
It lures me out, I sit in the sun
In my largest Mumu, enjoying my fat cells
Typing is for week days
It is five-thirty on a Friday night
Put your poems up! An inner voice screeches.
I refuse to be hurried.
This is almost gardening weather.
I watch a monarch fly past; amazed at my ability to ignore myself.
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