Feels Like I’m Stalling

I ought to be running.
The plan in my phone
Says I ought to be running,
Not writing alone
On the sofa, inertially
Biding my time
With procrastinatactile
Inaction in rhyme.

Seven Up

Seven is the number that
I reach for at each dropped hat
And it bothers me to quit
Before I count up to it.
Iambs are not seven’s friend
But this poem still can end

Foot Ball

The penguin took my meatball
But I won’t have him arrested.
He only wants to play with it,
As he himself’s attested.
He’s practicing for fatherhood:
He keeps it on his feet
For warmth and its protection.
After practice, then I’ll eat.