her son's tuba recital

i pretend

to be busy, because it seems

like

that's what

everyone else does.

running around with their

chicken

heads cut off.

i tell them

no,

i can't make it to that

appointment,

no, i'm sorry, i don't have

time for that,

your child's tuba recital,

your son's

soccer game thirty miles

from here,

in the cold.

i apologize and say

sorry,

i can't make, 

your annual birthday party,

or the wedding

i was invited to. third one's

the charm,

or so i'm told.

of course, i'm lying,

i have all

the time in the world,

i just

don't want to do any

of these things,

it's not that i'm busy,

i just don't want to go.