Stop Motion

Author Note: This poem was originally published in the online journal, The Word’s Faire.

Image Source: Unsplash, Alexander Krivitskiy

On Monday
when the drudgery
Piles up
Around you
in once-used rags,
We call them “circumstances.”
They encircle until one
task at a time
crosses itself out.
Here you are,
like me,
sitting in your room
next to second-day clothes,
Catatonic,
lights off.
When what excites you
turns its back,
Always says, “Not it!”
right in your face
but still stacks up
to-dos in heaps,
we call it the grind.
Somehow the sadness, though,
It doesn’t
ever deflate itself, does it?
It whirls, instead,
blurring tepid air
through cracked fan blades.
What would I have to sell
from the store of myself
to have any
of the following: