Boredom

When I was young, as best I can recall,

One day I said that I was bored, words sprung

From youthful haste and foolishness outpoured,

And said to she whose laboring love and work

Kept food upon our table, laundry clean

Within our drawers; kept grimy, moldy stains

From laying claim to all our tubs and toilets.

I’m sure I spoke my artless, silly thoughts

Just as my mother was unloading dishes

From dishwasher, or laundry from the dryer.

She looked at me with fed-up eyes and said,

“If you are bored, it means that you are boring.”

From that day on I’ve considered these words

When boredom or ennui has made me yawn

And slowly shut my eyes, with sleep made dewy,

Or when I’ve made lamenting, mournful cries

About how there is nothing here to do.

My mother’s scolding voice sounds in my head,

Reminding me that toil is never past,

Always there’s work to do, both in the home,

Where bathtubs need a scrubbing, laundry folding,

And in the world, where children are abused,

And homelessness and poverty abound.

And yet I have not adequately learned

The lesson she once strove for me to learn.

No, I have never, ever erred again,

By telling someone working that I’m bored,

But I have often simply given in

And let the boredom win, and laid my head

Upon my hands, or on some paper scrap

Discarded on my desk, and had a nap.

I guess that she was right, those years ago,

When I am bored indeed I am just boring.

But I am happy so to be, my boredom

Consumed by snoring and by somnolence.

And then in restful, sleeping, vivid dreams,

I do the things my boring self won’t do,

Or rather, maybe, will not think to do 

When my body’s boringly awake.