I say to myself: "I'm going to write a poem."
So I situate myself in the proper place to do so.
But then, what to write about?
I look about my room, as if this is supposed to inspire me.
A teacup, a candlestick,
Box of unopened fig Newtons,
Mess of clothes on the floor.
Phone.
Sweatpants.
Boredom.
It turns out, I'm not a poet after all. Either that,
or I'm in the wrong room.