Idly Fret

I'm sitting with device in hand, Trapped in forked thought, Derailed, enqueued, attention spanned, All plot but ought for naught. Zephyr-jostled oriel, Jalousie jingle jets, Venetian piped boreal, Cochlear tingle sets. Typing taps of tip-toed pitter-patter, The thumbs' chagrin of screen, Ticking ornamental chatter, As if later's to be seen. Body borborygmus begs, Tasks at hand be dealt, Rather held in barreled keg, And later burst in welt. Nonetheless, here I am, Sitting glass in hand and foot, Sinking skin: a traffic jam, Where later tasks are put.