A.D.D.

A.D.D.

I force myself to sit at my desk,
with the intentions of coaxing out a paper.
I’d be happy with a rough-draft, or an outline,
or hell, I’d love to be able to jot down my ideas,
but you see, my fingers are on strike.
(I didn’t even know they had joined a union!)

I’m staring at an empty computer screen
that’s looming over me, staring back—
blankly, and yet tauntingly.

I reach for a glass of water sitting beside me,
which disturbs a current of air that trails my arm,

exciting up
a waif
of
dust
that
dances
about
an
encroaching
beam
of
light;

it follows its own unique path—
no destinations, no obligations.
Only to scurry and lazily dance in the current
when I cut the air with the wave of an arm,
and to settle on my desk and keyboard and books as it pleases.
I can control its movement, but cannot control
or predict its destination.

I lean far back into my chair,
trying to focus and stare at the floor,
dangling cheese in front of my mouse’s wheel,
pleading for her to accept my offering—no response.
Just a note:
I’m out to lunch, will be back later.