Laziness Poem by Micron Jan

They meant to start—eventually.
The email's been half-written since yesterday.
Dishes stack quietly in the sink,
learning the shape of one another.

A sock waits on the floor
like it understands patience better than I do.
Outside, the garden forgets its borders,
weeds practicing ambition unchecked.

Time stretches out on the couch beside them,
yawning, unbothered.
Plans are drafted, revised,
then gently laid down for a nap.

The loose door hinge is almost fixed.
The dripping tap has been
listened to, considered,
left to finish its own thought.

The to-do list grows dusty,
each bullet point aging like fine wine.
"Soon, " they say,
which here means not today, but with confidence.

Nothing is rushed.
Even guilt moves slowly,
circling the room,
forgetting why it came.

And somehow the day ends anyway—
dishes still soaking,
garden still wild,
repairs eternally mid-sentence,

unaccomplished, unashamed,
a masterpiece of delay,
signed: tomorrow.