Useless Poems #382
An uninspired writer,
and a dry winter night.
A house that looks as dull
as its insides.
Window frames without color,
rugs without pine needles,
kitchens without Christmas cookies.
Just a scrooge of a girl
and another empty glass.
And there’s a blinking cursor,
that seems to grow larger
with every empty second.
It scrolls across the screen
in invisible ink-
“Fucking write!”
But instead she stares
and she stares
and she stares.
And when she is almost cross eyed
she closes her lids and listens.
Behind her in bed-
rustling sheets
and a whistling nose.
The product of plastered toasts
and trivial conversation.
Lustless weekends lost.
But he’s still there,
relentlessly loving,
committed to a shared bed
And overpriced espresso makers.
But she could choke on lattes
and morning kisses.
She needs the roars
and the aches
and the minutes that feel like hours.
And maybe then,
maybe,
this screen will fill itself again.