How can I distract myself? Let me count the ways.
It’s amazing how I can usefully and helpfully fill my days.
My sink is super-shiny, my rubber gloves worn out.
My fridge has no more mould, just freshly prepared trout.
That old shed of mine, with boxes of old books,
is now a spider-free den; a children-friendly nook.
The piles of beauty sachets in my bathroom cabinet
now languish in the bin. They give me no regrets.
The stray strands in my eyebrow, the split ends of my hair
are now all clipped and neat. All are gone, I swear.
The clothes from years gone by, that I promised I’d wear again,
are stuffed in plump black sacks, going to causes humane.
The oven’s clean and spick, dried-in dribbles gone.
Anyone would think I’m a domestic goddess reborn.
But every writer has to go there,
to a cave-like, darkened gloom;
to that wibbly-wobbly place
before you move from womb to bloom.
So when the deadline’s there
and you’re picking up the pace,
remember to give some space
to creativity’s ultimate grace.