At the end of a long day spent
on the business end of poetry, and
yes there is a business end but do not
confuse that with money for that
has nothing at all to do with poetry,
I stare at the page knowing the words
are going to be stubborn this day,
will refuse to exit the pen, hiding
in the darkness of the blue gel ink.
The paper calls out to them, begging,
but the page is easily ignored
for the words know that they will
not have purpose until they choose
to grace its surface, and neither
frankly, cares a whit about my
unending frustration when I cannot
claim to have written something
for a day without words is sadder
when lost in the drudgery of manuscript
management and submission.