The Doldrums of Poetry

I’m supposed to write another poem today.

A poem that will connect with people.

A poem that screams or shouts or whispers or coos.

I don’t know I just know I’m supposed to write a poem.

I’m supposed to write something about someone or something I feel strongly about.

But I don’t feel strongly about anything today.

I’ve run out of steam on the love poems as of late.

And writing one more poem on friends seems only to exaserbate.

No I want to write a poem on something new.

Something fresh.

But I’m stuck in this house.

This big empty house that is cold and dark.

This big empty house that was built for a family, but only has the three of us puttering around it.

There is no deep emotional connection.

There is no poingnant point of view.

There is simply breakfast that must be eaten at some point.

Job applications to find and fill.

Tasks to accomplish.

No deep thoughts from this poet today.

It makes me wonder.

Did Papa Hemingway have days like this?

Where he wasn’t the deep well of knowledge he was when he wrote pages in The Sun Also Rises or For Whom the Bell Tolls?

Did he have days where he laid on his boat’s deck, paid for by the Cuban government and just think

“Today is not the day for me to be writing”

And did he still pull out his pencil and paper, or maybe typewriter and write anyways?

Because if he did I respect him more.

But if he didn’t….

That dirty drunk should’ve called me up and we could’ve lain on his boat together.

I could use some Cuban sunshine.