Twenty line poems, she asks. Twenty lines.
Twenty lines? I haven't got time.
I can't write on command, I've tried.
Especially not with my compulsive need to rhyme.

Compulsively, repulsively, I'd rather rhyme internally.
Butterflies flutter by, I watch them for eternity.
Eyelids begin to droop, asleep I would prefer to be.
Regretting waking up never has occurred to me.

Why is this so hard if I love to write?
My mind is blocked and the paper remains white.
Put on my Converse and lace them tight.
I'll find inspiration tonight.

Remove me from the house, I'm going for a walk.
Runner jogs by in silence, preferring not to talk.
Step over smeared concrete art drawn in colored chalk.
No birds awake in the night to mock.

Surprisingly, the air is cold.
This Florida heat was getting old.
That giant orb of heated gold.
It's cold elsewhere, I've been told.