Time, besides working and sleeping,
Only because of unconsciousness and paychecks,
Is mostly wasted.
Whatever the hobby, whatever the act:
Doodling, collecting, relaxing with music,
Talking about your day, going to a rally,
Studying for some test, carpentry,
Watching the wind work up the trees,
Coughing, tippling on television, cards,
Even gardening, jogging or singing,
They’re all just little tools to help chip away at something big
While you’re not loving or eating or thinking.
The task, nearly our duty,
Each waking hour we own,
Is to meet trifling with triumph.
About the Poet
Carson Pytell is a poet and short fiction writer living in a very small town in upstate New York. His was has previously appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Vita Brevis, Literary Yard, Leaves of Ink, Revolution John, Corvus Review, Gideon Poetry Review, Poetry Pacific, Former People, Futures Trading, and The Pangolin Review.