Lists.

I’ve been revolving my day around lists.
Lists, lists, lists, ubiquitous
and organized
and productive
and goal-oriented
lists.

Remember to eat, they tell me.
Respond to e-mails.
Wake up early enough to have time to shower.
Figure out what to wear tomorrow.
Call your brother.
Wear winter boots.

And then.
Somewhere in there between the things I’m reminding myself of.
Affirming to myself that I need to do, of which I do not need to be reminded or affirmed.
Are the real ones.
In a lyric.
In a phrase.
In a telephone conversation.
On new paper in a new book.

Raspberries and coffee taste delicious together.

Become everything you said you never would be.

Enemy fire. Filling me blanks.

Again and again and again
through my useless, symmetrical head
these useless sentiments ring.
It’s been six days
and already
the lists and reminders
have marred and forever burdened one hundred and two
once clean, lined pages.

I have frostbite on my toes from the cold.
And frostbite in my hands from you.