You know you need to do the work.
But oh, those pretty distractions.
You’d rather
call her,
even call HER,
than do the work.
Fine pursuits, all of them,
maybe even noble and required.
Of their own merit,
on their own time,
they likely serve you well.
Allow. Yes, allow.
But researching the age of the moon,
the rules of huckle buckle,
the meaning of mercurial,
the behaviour of those teeny zippy trippy red ants,
the number of layers in a mille feuille,
the right amount of oil for a pizza crust (none),
the bloom time of the oleander,
the brightest star seen by the naked eye (Sirius),
the ponies of Assateague,
or the origin of the Book of Love?
Don’t bother.
I’ve done it.
You’re covered.
So now, Dear One,
you may get back to work.