She runs her hands 
through bed-rumpled hair, slurps
fragrant hazelnut coffee, slips on
tortoise shell reading glasses
and poises pen above paper.

Nothing.

Morning birds chirp and chirp
outside her open window, so
damn cheerfully, except the doves.
Those masters of melancholy voice
her own malaise.

Just shut up   up up

She wants to get naked, sink
back down into soft flannel sheets,
forget about metaphors, imagery,
lineation, strong verbs.

She swallows two Advil and
takes the day off.