She starts an act of interruption,
feels a tug inside a lung
where the word 'finish' has stuck
inside pockets eager to claim
anything of value.
She's a spiral bound person
flipping through catalogs of potential.
What she wants, she denies.
She inflicts her abandonment philosophy
before she can begin.
A game of avoidance, a dance of preservation.
She wallows in dreams
she has no intentions of pursuing.
She quotes quotes about the journey
as she slinks away from closure like a fox
She wields her weapon of choice,
the procrastination broom
which sweeps the hairballs and dust
from one room to the next
just to prove something moved,
because she moves, at least she moves.