Low Hanging Fruit

This is supposed to be a poem, But a poem won't fit into my
irregular shape, the shards and heavy sighs that I am assembling under the nearest
Ugly, lame fluorescent
Streetlight. And I know you know what I mean, because I know that
You've woken up from an accidental afternoon nap, too, feeling
Sort of
Refreshed, but not sure why you slept because
You weren't tired
And you
Had a few things still on your To Do list left
To Do. But
Something happened while you were
Sleeping, not dreaming,
That solid hard afternoon sleep--
Something awoke in you,
Punching through the hard winter soil, unwelcome, the early tulip on
A prematurely warm February Day.

And now the light of the Sunday is gone,
And the rest of the evening is waiting for you to figure out what the fuck
If anything you intend
To Do and
You are pretty sure you can get the rest of these Things
Done. But,
All you care about is the sound of that flock of geese, honking madly across
The full rising moon
And where the hell are they going, southbound, in February?