The Time is Write

I'd love to be a writer
and leave behind
the mundane gossip
of the early morning gathering
and leave behind
the snippy comments
of that one colleague
who just can't help herself
and leave behind
the traffic jam
breakfast rush
on the coronary bypass.
I'd love to be a writer -
act on my inspirations
and leave behind
something beautiful -
a forest floor of fallen autumn cones,
a muggy grey sky threatening thunder, 
the rippled mirror of a summer lake,
the longing gaze that came too late
something beautiful
something beautiful
for those who are yet to come.
I'd write novels.
I'd write comedy.
A TV show, a movie script,
an album full of songs and serenades.
Instead I'm writing lesson plans,
action plans,
progress reports,
policies on head-lice,
yard procedures
and who-hit-who investigations.
All of utmost import,
but a famine for the soul.

Someday,
there will be time
to devote to being a writer.
I will stay home and write all day
I will discipline myself.
Up with the sun,
boiled egg and toast
hot cup of coffee.
I will penetrate the page
with polished precision.
I'll take a break to walk in the park
breathe in blossoms of springtime
and eavesdrop on elderly bench-chatters.
Then back to the notepad
to lay down
the brilliance of my imagination.
Someday
when the time is right.