Open the drawer.
What’s missing, once found,
must be returned
or else be lost again.
Set the scissors on a junk-bed.
To find them at all is a miracle.
Decide to change
into pajamas.
Unbutton the cuffs.
An empty glass on the bedside
wears a drying lip-print on the rim.
How long since the glass has been full?
Get that first.
Thirst is more important than change.
And going downstairs in pants
is what normal people do.
After changing
it will be easier
to focus on relaxing.
Pick up the glass.
Put it down on the desk.
The clutter has a scissor-hole
outlined in empty-headed notepads.
Written in one notebook, incomplete:
Have you noticed shameful thoughts b/c of lack…
Beneath the spiralbound strata,
the laptop is closed.
There was the new roadside title
for that half-cocked opus
hidden on the hard drive.
Rename the document
before time misplaces the unformed.
Sit down, open it,
hear the fans whir to life.
There is a beer can not in the way.
Throw it away (downstairs).
It should be tidier up here.
Consider that, standing
can in hand, fingers on the doorhandle.
While you’re down there, fill the glass
that you are not holding.
Stop. Return to the chair.
You did not write the title down.
You did not throw out the can.
You did not get the glass.
You did not close the drawer.
You have not changed.
…lack of focus
is how the sentence ends.
You can not change.
That is the miracle.
What’s missing, once found,
must be returned
or else be lost again.
Set the scissors on a junk-bed.
To find them at all is a miracle.
Decide to change
into pajamas.
Unbutton the cuffs.
An empty glass on the bedside
wears a drying lip-print on the rim.
How long since the glass has been full?
Get that first.
Thirst is more important than change.
And going downstairs in pants
is what normal people do.
After changing
it will be easier
to focus on relaxing.
Pick up the glass.
Put it down on the desk.
The clutter has a scissor-hole
outlined in empty-headed notepads.
Written in one notebook, incomplete:
Have you noticed shameful thoughts b/c of lack…
Beneath the spiralbound strata,
the laptop is closed.
There was the new roadside title
for that half-cocked opus
hidden on the hard drive.
Rename the document
before time misplaces the unformed.
Sit down, open it,
hear the fans whir to life.
There is a beer can not in the way.
Throw it away (downstairs).
It should be tidier up here.
Consider that, standing
can in hand, fingers on the doorhandle.
While you’re down there, fill the glass
that you are not holding.
Stop. Return to the chair.
You did not write the title down.
You did not throw out the can.
You did not get the glass.
You did not close the drawer.
You have not changed.
…lack of focus
is how the sentence ends.
You can not change.
That is the miracle.
Lucas Olson (they/he) is a writer from Massachusetts. After going through an ADHD assessment with their therapist, they asked “So, did the last few questions turn it all around?” and their therapist laughed too quickly and said “Uh, no.” They can be found at @lucasolson on Twitter and at lucasolsonwriter.com.