Most Days, Poetry Happens. But Not Today.

This Place:
my decompression chamber —
emptied of all ambition today
as my muse; dead on arrival
left a note in the kitchen
somewhere between the
fire engine red
toaster oven
and my beloved rack
of Starbucks coffee pods.

She wrote, “I’m sorry, but I need to take the day off.

The bitch! She’s taken with her all of my adjectives,
verbs, nouns, and my absolute favorite 15 ounce
Grumpy Cat coffee cup that captions:
“I don’t like morning people,
or mornings, or people.”

Coffee without a cup.
Poet without a muse.

What a tragic and shameful waste of insanity
my words won’t be today.

© Literary Remains

15 thoughts on “Most Days, Poetry Happens. But Not Today.

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