Fear is a great motivator, but it has short legs.
Worn out after the test, the trophy and the pizza,
I don’t remember much.
The work rumbles, a little gassy,
awaiting peristalsis and the final squeeze.
Motivation is a good motivator; where is she?
In the grass tiny bugs tickle the edges of my feet.
The sun’s rays and the road’s grit
push through spirit and out the mind.
Silent, I can finally hear and sing.
Motivation tocks from that spiraled inside clock.
Not precocious, still it visits
when I’m slowed down to humble and don’t know.
I surrender to her sputtering melody
and laugh through the nectar.
Wait—see if she doesn’t push along the deep back wall
and tap out a new plan, a pirouette,
a frantic look-through.
I plant those feet in the grass
and wait to be tickled again.