I will arise now

I Will Arise Now

I will arise now, or not.
There is no hurry.
I can stroll,
stare at the nasturtiums
growing in the concrete planters
on the sidewalk,
or wander mid-morning,
reading the backs of cans,
comparing, at length,
the astonishing quantities of salt
in tomato
and lentil soup.

Once there was the evening rush:
off the bus,
late from another meeting,
grab and run,
get home, cook, sleep, start again

I tell what day it is
by the farmers’ market and the church bells.
Now I have a bus pass
and a weekday afternoon.
Perhaps the Hitchcock season.
Or the little cinema
still showing French films
older than I am.

Breakfast can wait.
It need not be
a buttered bagel
eaten one-handed
while emails
breed overnight like
cockroaches under kitchen cabinets.
People lose their heads after midnight.
I will arise when I feel like it
and feed the sparrows.
I see they’re digging up the street again.
Gas or sewer or fiber optic cables,
it’s always something.
I could be annoyed.
Or not.
Cats of course mastered
retirement long ago.
Boiling their brains
in the patch of sun or by the stove,
then stretch, then another nap.

Soon enough
it is lunchtime,
then a snooze,
then the pleasant question
of whether the moment
deserves tea
or something stronger.
No phones, no meetings,
no crises, no summons.
No one requiring
a piece of me
before lunch.
My day
belongs to no one else.
How, I wonder,
did I ever find the time
to go to work?
I will arise now.
Eventually.
The kettle’s boiling.

Written in response to W3#218. Thank you, Benjamin and David.