I didn’t want to write a poem today.
After twenty-six straight
my font of inspiration is dry; a fossilized lake-
bed where once liquid silver sprang
now, all is silent and dust.
No tinkle or sparkle
no smell save must
of age and of disrepair
a porch swing in the still air.
I am all used up, a cicada husk
left behind and stranger to love.
I’ll keep trudging on
towards the thirtieth, I figure.
Momma ain’t raise no quitter.