It's 4:50pm. The second hand ticks through the numbers. Nobody stirs in the office. Just heads behind computer screens. I think about my daughter. She must be starting to work up an appetite for dinner. The manager sneaks out earlier than usual. I think about my wife. She's probably cooking up something delicious. I stare at the screen. A new email. The subject line becomes blurry as I stare back at the clock. It's 4:51pm.
I don't know what to write, But my hands itch For the sweet release of poetry.
Just like the ears yearn For the smooth symphonies, Just like the eyes call For the breathtaking beauties, My hand reaches For the blessed release of inspiration.
No poem came to me this morning as I walked for an hour in the snowmelt mist threading my boots through the brown salt muck and flotsam winter's junk food wrappers the city just stared at its own face in the ice as uninspired as me
Trees only bear so much fruit The grass can only be so green Writers block can only block so much Snow can only fall so fast And now Ideas can only come in a blue moon
