This is a poem about productivity, a self-help poem.
Start your day with the hardest tasks: take an hour,
for example, to monetize the shape of a cloud,
or trademark the sound of a rusty gate groaning
in the unseasonable, hot wind. Next, check-in with
your team. Be sure the leaves are working well
with their branches and raccoons finish gathering
acorns before clocking out for the winter. Write
a report on the status of seagulls, whether they
have learned to separate plastic from plankton, then
pull up your satellite to identify a beached whale
—call in a few favors to rescue it.

After lunch, don’t forget to confirm the balance
of what you owe your dreams—consider
a low-interest payment plan. File suit against
the wolf for howling, again, at the moon; issue
a written warning to the poet for submitting
another free-verse expense report; unsubscribe
from sorrow, from pain, from exhaustion.

Sign off in time for a thirty-minute workout,
keeping your heart rate below eighty percent
of late-for-sunset terror. At dinner, track
calories, calculate the carbon footprint of
lasagna and tofu, debate the ethics of organic beef.
Sort the mail. Wash the dishes. Turn off the lights.
Set your alarm to rise before the rooster.
Dying is but another errand to run.