“Are we done yet?”, comes the plaintive call from the kitchen,
Wanting to know whether assigned chores are done.
“Are you done yet?”, comes an irritated voice from outside the bathroom.
I am 73, and I’m not done yet. With what?
Creating. If I do it by myself, of myself, sharing myself,
They say, ” My how creative you are!”
Because I’m the only one of me in the universe.
It would feel wrong if I didn’t create. No?
Andy Worhol said don’t worry about it being good or bad
Just do it, and let them figure it out.
I’m pumping… it out. Churning my psyche for nuance.
Responding to perpetual impetuous manifestation of
I quit asking, “Are we done yet?”
I ask instead, What’s next?”