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Itís the molasses of your day;
You know who you are.
It glues you to your bed sheets,
Until it has been conquered.
Itís the teasing comb of your hair;
As you hide from the doorbell,
Until youíre forced to shower -
Because youíre going out.
Itís the fairy of your desktop
Who collects against your will:
So many unpaid bills
Until you lose your lights.
Itís the spirit you avoided
The day of garden planting -
That overtook you later
ĎTill the weeds became your shame.
Itís the blindfold on your eyes,
That you wore while you were thinking:
Youíd read stories to your children.
Can you believe theyíve graduated?
Itís Houdiniís iron cage
Thatís filled with cakes and cookies -
Out of reach of fruits and salads
And that diet book youíre reading.
Itís the ghost of Christmas Future
Who binds chains around the trunk,
Thatís dusty in the attic;
Storing the novel that you started.
Felicia Stone 1/27/05
Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.