Inspiration absent,
I lift my heavy pencil 
and lower it to the page,
void of text and expectation.

Even the careless workings
of the surly garbage man,
with his cast-off Rite Aid receipts
and used dryer sheets
haphazardly littering the pavement,
usually a steady source of witty lines for my tongue,
scatter only tiny crumbs of stale ideas
on the gravel driveway of my mind.

Dust billows and cobwebs hang,
but try as I might
to shake the sticky darkness loose,
the specks of mindless dirt fall harder,
returning to their former haunts.
They would muddy the water
of my fragile soul,
if only water flowed.

But all that lies within me now
is dry.