Addictions pull on me

like a clumsy child

trying to tie his shoes

he knots them up, and they just hang there

sloppily.

Catastrophes ensue, like a late electric bill

or overdue

lost library books

and I have to pay the fines.

Or

there is unlimited time

and nothing to do.

What I should do

I don’t want to do, so I just lay there

listlessly

and the list of things

I need to do

mounts

like a hesitant lover

that doesn’t want to consummate

a boring sin.

Any dry spell

of motivation

or black magic

that blackens my soul

or storm that sinks my cork

bobs up again.

And the writing gets done. I lose hope. I give up,

but like a lingering addiction

the needle needs the arm

and the arm needs the needle

and the smoker needs an iron lung

and the drunk needs the bottle

and the writer needs a computer

I hold still, like a boy with Tourette’s

who refuses to swear

and then I go to the bathroom

and let it all out.

It feels good to give into my addiction.