I sit down behind my desk
6 o’clock
The same time I sat here yesterday
The same time I will sit here tomorrow
So why is it my muse won’t come
She’s always been sitting on the windowsill
Waiting for me
But today she is missing
I stare at the blank papers in front of me
And try to write something cohesive
But all I end up with are sparse feathers of thought
“a vacuum cleaner turned on somewhere near my heart”
“a laugh louder than the sun”
“I cry for yesterday’s ghosts”
Nothing complete, nothing done.
The paper yawns and eats my words
As if to say
“what’s wrong with you today.”
“I’m sorry!” I scream at it in return.