— Richard James
Early morning desk
calendar stares me down.
Thirty-one perfect squares mark time;
golf one day,
a doctor visit,
a movie show;
an abundance of glaring white space.
Released from the working world,
I was joyful for the legroom,
doing what and when I wanted,
but like a window-trapped wasp,
the mind is a fidgety thing.
Those vacant gaps call, waiting
to be filled, afraid of frittering away.
I fret over freedom,
worry on things I might never do,
and when exhausted by relaxation,
the adage, “be careful what you wish for,”
floods in like a tsunami,
knocking me over, drowning me in dread,
that the white will multiply and spread.