Casually Distracted

One thousand eyes
looking
one thousand directions.
To each a thread
affixed to the brain
stretching attention
this way and that
until deformation.
Triage is a tornado
tossing each around the day
and hoping nothing falls.
And the constant discontent
of being unable
to fully commit
to all but the minimum,
with the knowledge of being able to do better,
yet unable
now.

Worse still
is the ooze
coating leisure.
Moments of stillness
unallowed
by the remaining threads.
Disassociation is an effort itself;
the tornado does not rest.
Have I mentioned lately
how much I hate
the wind?

Today is a good day to make bread.