In Which I Rue A Wasted Day

I got a bit of a late start, it's true
But that explains not how it's five o'clock
And I'm on just my first shot of black brew
And only now have op'ed my mouth to talk.
When one lives by oneself this is a risk:
Entire afternoons can disappear
Quite wordlessly if outside there's a brisk
And bitter wind to keep her indoors. Here,
The sun has gone to bed and I've not done
A thing I planned to do save laundry. Now
On overtime I sit at work. No fun!
While projects languish back at home, and how!
A sin it is to waste my time that way,
I've even missed the blue and red and grey.

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Dream Of A Better One

Today I wrote a sonnet in a dream,

Dreamed, too, that I had posted it right here,

Where this attempt is now. But it would seem

The adder whom I dreamed stole it. I fear

It was the best one that I ever wrote.

I certainly believed this as I slept.

I reach now for it, just to watch it float

Away. I sit and wish now that I'd kept

On sleeping, even though t'would be a waste

Of precious time, called free, that's really not

At all free. How I live my life, in haste

To reach these days, only to nap and rot

When they arrive! And yet, shining and rare

That sonnet, dreamed of, still awaits me there.