Oh how prolific I seem to become when grading a paper or two
Or cooking the family stew
Or cleaning up pots from my roux
Or trying to write my class syllabi two days past the date they were due
(Not just for one class but two)
The doggerel I make up in lieu of my work should be up for judicial review
While I just sit here and stew
work’s abducted my brain like a coup
Then poetry told me to stop washing dishes and whip out a quick one for you.
& I wrote this even though I knew
It would be wasted time I would rue
While my poetic muse for today was the dishes
my thesis still seems to be due . . .
Why does this seem like Déjà vu?