What if you decided
to write the thing
just to prove to yourself
that you don’t want
to do it for real,

and you named the file,
stared at it, looked away
into the middle distance
where your brain registers
the table and the printer,

but as a secondary file,
the bassist off to the side
of the lead guitarist and vocalist.
Don’t you see how upsetting
writing this fictional piece would be?

You melt against the cushions,
wondering if you can move
your fingers, much less your whole
body, but if you can move,
you might as well go to bed.

Your college roommate used to remind
you it would look better in the morning,
and goshdangit she was usually right.
Worth taking the chance, you figure.
Tomorrow you won’t remember this.