The Thinking Poet


The Pest

And so the day ticks away,

And I say to myself: so much for today

And that half-forgotten yesterday.

Can I resist the itch to action;

Must I always rebuff those wind-blown, spindrift thoughts

In favour of ought, that insistent call?

How can I live with these mismatched selves;

Must I always go to where Martha delves?

Always the drone that supports the chant:

"Now, this I must do",

Seldom finding honesty to ask:

Who is this troublesome child that tugs at my sleeve,

Never making a move to leave,

But always pleading: "Now, do this now!"

Shall I obey and never admit

That emptiness comes from lack of wit

And the grit to walk out on the pest at times

To find peace.