Avoiding

There's so much to be done,
thousands of pages,
multiplying tasks
piled on the hardwood floor.

Instead of sorting and sifting,
I'd rather be drawn
to the window ledge,
the one with cracking paint and tired wood.

I'd rather feel the massage of the trees
staring at me majestically,
or write a symphony,
or integrate dreams of popes and masturbation.

Sooner or later this mountain,
let me rephrase,
this tiny little ant hill of musical notes
will require my attention.
After lunch perhaps,
or a stroll in park.