I opened the door to my apartment.
—–I sat down in my stairwell.
—–I asked for a muse.
One answered my call but I didn’t feel inspired.
She exhausted me just by standing in my room,
her eyes fixed on the untouched paper waiting
—–on my desk.
I merely sat there, mulling over a week full of
—–half failures
—–pyrrhic victories.
An empty moon refused
—–to turn its face
—–to acknowledge my lack
———-of effort
———-of effect.
But a chill breeze
—–tussled my hair
—–crept over my skin
—–alerted me to my edges.
That was enough to stir something.
I sit in my stairwell.
I sip a cheap pinot grigiot.
I smoke a ridiculously additional cigarette.
I sift through the week to write up the relevant details:
—–There was a woman. Then there wasn’t.
—–There was a paper proposal.
—–There was a dismissal.
—–There was a second dismissal.
—–There was a pattern to the week.
—–There was a refusal to acknowledge it.
—–There was a past tense, but
———-there was no concomitant future tense.
—–There was a chill breeze that will never become
———-a biting wind.
I will not ask for inspiration tomorrow.
Today is enough.
