Insipid

Maybe sitting in the quiet of
your room
isn’t the best place for
poetry.
For lusty inspiration.

The light outside is very
dull
one light bulb has blinked
out
paper lanterns hang
dim orange
it is very quiet except
the furnace that purrs
nearby.

It all seems so insipid.
No ideas come
Some say just “write”
I say,
just “wrong.”
You can’t force poetry out of mouths
or meticulous
inky hands.

Poetry needs light, water,
and dirt.
But in the garden today there is
nothing
growing in the bed.
It will have to wait June.