At three a.m.

A poem

I wake
surrounded by work. Three-ring binders from
workshops, conferences
save notes
of what seemed good ideas,
that expect me now
to call them to action. The kitchen table collects,
not in neat piles
but spread unshuffled,
mail to be answered,
newsletters, articles,
yet to be read,
the table's space
reduced to room
for a plate and cup. The office desk waits,
layered in papers,
wanting my attention,
if only to discard them. The computer,
storing a labyrinth of facts
to be searched and rearranged,
cajoled to redeem
the world's questions,
sits and contemplates its screen saver. Tom Keene