Sitting, waiting
For something, anything to appear
On this page.
I’m a poet.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Staring forlornly at this page.
Deep breath. Concentrate.
Something will come.
I’m still waiting.
The clock is ticking too loudly.
The air is hot and sticky.
My pen is still poised.
Ready to write.
Ready to compose
My best work ever.
Still sitting. Breathing.
Butt getting numb.
No miracles tonight.
