Good Intentions

I can largely sum up my life in the things I've never done.  Some of those things are grand or impossible or are expected to remain undone.  Other things are the stuff of my promises.  They are the chores I really thought that I would remember to do or the hobbies I truly intended to pursue.  Those who know me can name plenty of things, if they put their minds to it, that I said I would do in a moment of strength and that slipped into the part of the world exists outside of my routine.  This is a poem about those things.

I hope anyone who reads this will take the time to comment on it in some fashion.  I don't necessarily want praise, I'll take criticisms (or Facebook / Google+ shares) just as readily.  It's nice to know that people are looking at all!  Well, without further ado, Good Intentions:


This is a poem about good intentions,
About the thank-you notes which clutter my drawer,
And keep me from finding the calligraphy pen which writes so nicely,
The pen I meant to give to my sister.
It’s about the good china sitting in its cabinet,
Dustily waiting for the dinner party I’ll throw one day,
And my bible, tucked quietly on a cluttered shelf of paperbacks.
This poem is not about the sweatpants in my bedroom,
But about the treadmill upon which they drape.
It’s about the unopened envelopes from charities,
To which I’ll write a check some payday, and
The keys I dropped on the table near the door,
Below the key hook I thought would keep things neat,
But that sits as bare as the sketchpads under my bed.
It’s a poem about the rhyme scheme that somehow isn’t here,
The presidential debate I recorded and never watched,
That was going to reveal the candidates for whom I never voted.
I heard once that Anne Frank believed people are really good at heart,
But as I toss another unpaid bill into my otherwise empty fruit bowl,
I can’t help but think that just isn’t good enough.

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