Procrastination

Tomorrow is my favourite

day of the week. No—

make it my entire life—

the day I’ll rise

with a burst,

as though I’d

swigged some Red Bull

in my dreams;

a dozen

ion batteries

in my back.

Every bookshelf

dusted

to the rathe of

starling trill, like I said I

always would; authors

alphabetic

before breakfast,

waving to their new

sequential neighbours.

And the couch I

warmed at nightfall?

Will no more be a lea

for a lazy spud,

nor each piece of chip

dislodged in clumsy

shards, inhaled by a hose

that weaves along the

cushions like a boa,

causing me to question

I can do this.

It’s the day I

pack my frittering

phone away. The only

TikTok clicking from

the cuckoo on the wall:

to no more sound its

faithful trips of guilt,

regarding the chances

I have squandered.

Reminding me instead

of all the tasks I will have

finished.

Tomorrow is the

day I’ll roll my sleeves

up to my jowls, chisel 

a work of wonder—

much greater than

this tripe. The sweat of

blood from brows just like

the Lord in Gethsemane,

who knew if he could

simply make it through

the waning hours, sleep an

entire Saturday away,

he’d wake

to a second wind—

step into refulgence

like a pledge

considered dead

the day before.

Andreas Gripp

August 26, 2025

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