I haven’t written a poem in days,
the kind of break that could easily turn
into an extended bout of malaise,
antipathy towards anything that could
be word related. I’m playing chicken
with the universe, expecting it to
blink first, capitulate and create a
wonderful life for me, yearly book deals
and high royalties, a long series of
celestial gifts I’ve earned for being
such a good boy, such a well-behaved child
of the world. It’ll come now, any day.
There’s no need for me to participate.
I am the master of coincidence.

One response to “Cheesecake

  1. Pingback: Two Things | Brian McGackin

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