I do not wish to write a poem today.
I’m tired and do not have an ounce of wit.
I can’t think of a blessed thing to say,
And if I did, it likely wouldn’t fit
In fourteen lines; my thoughts could be so small,
They’d barely fill a stanza, or they might
Require a sonnet cycle for them all,
Thus keeping me from sleep another night.
And as I lie awake that sleepless night,
I’d curse wrong-sized ideas that grow like weeds,
For though they may entice with colors bright,
They’re best ripped out before they go to seed.
This is a quite discursive way to say,
That I don’t wish to write a poem today.