Tonight, the words aren’t there. My head is thick
and strangely self-indulgent sad songs blare
throughout the bright cold room. The floor is slick
with sudsy water sloshing ev’rywhere.
I do not want to mope. I want to write.
But ev’ry word I’ve written now falls flat,
And pictures everywhere accost my sight.
“Oh, look at this—no, this!—now look at that!”
And I would just get up and pace a bit,
Except the floor’s so slick, I’d fall—fall flat
As words, tonight’s flat words—and so I sit.
I sit, but still I can’t sit still, for that
Is something that requires the space to move,
Like moving needs the force to just sit still.