Taste

All my life I’ve asked my master Why I am unable to choose This sweet man or fancy shoes Over this stranger, more difficult lover And these expensive but practical loafers And why I am unable to author A book exhibiting my full potential And have focused instead on inconsequential Letters to strange and difficult lovers Who by my letters were never changed. I certainly haven’t been constrained By terrible parents or trauma or poverty And even if I had it wouldn’t explain My propensity for misery Anymore than it would my Propensity for joy. Maybe I’m just a procrastinator As life is a procrastination of death And each breath just a procrastination of breath And friends a procrastination of work And work a procrastination of love And love a procrastination I’m just not above.