This month is a perfect chance to de-clutter. Writers are infamous for clutter: old notebooks, scraps of paper with odd jottings on them, filing cabinets that start beautifully, enthusiastically organized and end up bastions of some kind of Dadaist taxonomy.
The filing cabinet still intimidates me, so I have decided to start with one old notebook, in which I found a fragment. That fragment has been tidied up and finished, and is presented here as poem number two. And strangely enough, it has “clutter” as a sub-text.
God places his hands upon my shoulders
I feel the weight press down
Like a cross between a massage and a squirming toddler.
I think He resides around the T 3-4 area
A niggling, nagging deity,
Constantly reminding me of jobs undone,
Ills not yet remedied
Imperfections yet to be addressed.
He stays behind me,
Nudging me along the road
Sometimes reminding me to smell the daisies
More often sighing, and looking at this watch.
God is in the bloody details.