The Only Reasonable Thing

There are things to do.
Too many of them by last account.
You are behind
and becoming more so.

The list grows.
The piles grow.
The anxiety grows,
the sureness that things will not happen
on schedule,
on time,
on demand.

The news is bad.
It is getting worse.
All of it, out of your control,
all of it infecting your world
and you are left with the pieces,
but never quite
enough of them.

So you do the only reasonable thing.
you go outside
and look at the sky
and breathe.

About this poem

A rant. A strange man’s solution. Mine.

Tom