Typing
but I’m
tired. So I lie
on the
carpet.
Let my hair
sprawl
on the floor.
Strands
of a black silk,
complex web.
Huli
onto my stomach
and gather
the fallen
hair.
Press my palms
onto the floor.
Focus on
my hand
moving
in a circular
motion into a cocoon.
I huli back
over, and look
at termite wings
and exoskeletons
in the light
fixture above.
This is how
I work.
I lay
bound in
an entanglement
of daydreams.
Don’t
bother
me. I’m
tired
all
the time.
The unravelling
of thoughts
never stop.
Huli
on my back.
Close
the eyes,
my fingers
worm through
the warmth
of my silken
hair.
The 2:22 p.m. sun.
Content.
Don’t judge
me. I’m
working.
I have to write
a poem
about this.
(Object: the carpet covering the floor of my “home office” which is actually a landing at the top of the stairs)
Prompt: December 2021 Year of the Ox Writing Contest Prompts : )