doing nothing

I am done mutely berating myself
for avoiding doing things

I told myself I’d do on my days off.
I won’t do them till I do, or must.

Sweep the floor when the feet say.
Suck skin off chai when eyes

take a break from the dog eared page.
Write words to frustrate my future mud,

roll out clay, curl a slab into a cup
only when the body, empty, erupts.