I might write a poem, a prodigious, outstanding poem,
One laden with verbs and nouns, with extraordinary prepositions and conjunctions,
With thesaurus-flavored adjectives, and frivolous interjections,
But,
I can’t think of what to write.
I might glue together a stanza, a line, a word, paste them en masse artfully,
and cause moisture to glaze over eyes,
But,
I am stuck.
I might sit on this curved, uncomfortable seat, swivel my head to glance at the clock clinging to the wall,
Waiting for an idea to burst from this creative dam that has been constructed in my brain,
But,
Nerves are not sparked to life by any poetic impulses.
I do not know what letters to press, what symbols to jab with my fingertips.
I might turn for advice, for tentative recommendations,
I might nod my head and pretend I am ready to blow away those whose eyes will ghost over my sentences,
to fill a cavernous, blank computer screen with words.
I might burst into tears, aflame with frustration.
I might have writer’s block.