Today, I promised a poem, but
I have none. Empty, not like Jesus,
but like a drained kegger at a Frat boy
party. The party stalls, for lack of ale.
What to write? The push for life:
taking care of the son on a Sunday,
relatives visiting and birthday
parties to go to. Sabbath
and the words disappear. The crime
on no rhyme, metaphors dissipate
like dew in the midmorning heat.
Finding the beat of language
beats me for the day. Irony
has ironed out its spell on me.
Forgive me. I write
only to say
no poem today.