What I do instead of writing poetry

This morning I read the news
Making a note of ideas
I felt like a writer.
Then I danced for fifteen minutes
Because writers sit so much
And we all know ‘sitting is the new smoking’.
The yoga mat beckoned
And I went
Because my neck hurts from writing
Then I pickled cabbage, made pasta
Sauce and soaked rice
To nourish my body
And so my kitchen can be cleaned by the
Househelp who arrives at noon
Because a writer with a dirty kitchen
Can’t write
The househelp didn’t come, or call or even
Answer my phone call
So I cleaned my kitchen
Washed the dishes in the sink
Tinkered with the steam mop
That doesn’t work
That never worked
That is unworkable
And simply an amalgamation of plastic
Meant to lure unsuspecting buyers
Into throwing away their plastic money
And then throwing away the plastic uselessness.
I fought plastic-induced guil, then
A text arrived from my bank
Which I couldn’t understand
Was I even meant to?
A Bajaj Allianz man calls
But I don’t answer
He wants me to ‘reinvest’ so that
He can make some money off me.
I quell a rising rage.
It’s time to eat, pickled cabbage.
More dishes to soak
But this writer’s kitchen is too demanding
Its neediness offputting

I leave the dishes pickling in suds
The steam mop pickling in water spilt
All over the kitchen floor
Because writers don’t have to have the best-kept houses.
Dust devils, cat fur, plants, dead steam mops
Apple cores, bananas calling out to be baked
They have to be ignored
After lunch
There’s always more to be done.
After lunch
The pen beckons
The keyboard entices
The rain-drenched afternoon unfurls
Saving the poet from ‘doing’
As loops and curlicues spread across
The yellowed pages
The rough paper
Holding my first
Drafts, occasionally brilliant
More often, a work in progress
A lot like me.