This is a day in which procrastination is as
manifest as continents, whose tectonic plates
shift with an imperceptible, unstoppable
inevitability, obliterating opposition.
This is a day for hunching in the corners
of coffee shops with a favoured paperback,
gazing occasionally outside to reinforce the
sense of gratitude for inactivity, for stupor.
This is a day for flicking idly through old
collections of vinyl, gratuitously identifying
the tracks that evoke the greatest sense of
irrevocably lost youth; playing them to death.
This is a day for aimless ambling, shrugging
and shambling in slippers, eating pastries,
ignoring the crumbs that litter ones lap,
neglecting duty with an unstudied apathy.