Listless

If I were a boat, I'd be a sailboat in the doldrums. I'd be floating in a calm sea of fog, dry land out of sight, sun veiled behind gauzy clouds, carrying only stale granola bars and tepid drinking water.

If I were a ball, I'd be tethered to a pole cemented into an old tire. No one would even come by to smack me and watch me bump into the pole. No quick games of volleyball for me. Just dangling listlessly.

If I were a tree, I'd be a white birch, my branches extended while all my leaves dead and gone. No shade under me, no shelter from storms, just immobile, helpless to keep dogs from peeing on my trunk. I can't even scratch my nose.

I've been casting about, trying to come up with a flash of brilliance or a chin-stroking, eye-squinting, thought-inspiring topic, but I am listless. Both listless in the classic, dictionary-defined sense of the word and listless as in devoid of lists. I ought to make a list or two and check it twice. I need to get a pulse--stat!--before the Good Housekeeping Police come and carry me away in a body bag.