It has been exactly one month since I’ve written a poem.
One. Lonnnnggggg. Month.
What if I never write another poem?
You stood by me for weeks when the poemer’s been on the fritz, but what if the ol’ girl has just pooped out? What if she’s destined to rust out in the field, sinking slowly and unevenly as the air in the tires gives out one at a time? Kids’ feet crashing through the thinned-out floorboards during games of hide and seek? Possums (nasty things) nesting in the back seat?
Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Oh, boy.