.
.
I will write no poem today.
I have no message to convey.
Surely it cannot be this way.
There must be something I wish to speak about.
I could speak of a cat that’s black,
or maybe a childhood friend named Jack,
or sinister things like a torture rack,
or evil drugs like heroin or cocaine.
In my head there rings a chime
to tell me that it is a crime
that somehow, maybe, just this time,
I cannot make the last word sound like it should.