Suffering from the commonest of poet’s laments,
I sit staring at an aggravatingly blank page.
I flip my pencil through my fingers, hoping it will break
And I will have to take the time to go and find a new one.

I can hear the subtle ticking of the clock and it annoys me.
I never hear it when ideas crowd my pen.
I turn the radio to Doo *** -
Maybe that will wake creative juices-
But I just end up singing with the Tenor.

I hit the Mac and try to see what others wrote
But that just makes me feel like I am hopeless
And who said I could be a poet anyway.
I know so little of the forms and rhymes.

It’s time to go and get the dinner going
Fame will have to wait another day.
I close the Mac and trundle to the kitchen
To see if I can manufacture poems in a sauce pan.
ljm