Poems from Elle's perspective

Empty Pockets

My pockets look empty,
a denim wasteland,
wanting only for tumbleweeds
to roll among the lint.

The illusion is perfect.

My muse plays hide and seek,
and peek a boo,
childish games
designed to torment me.

She delights in persecuting me.

She teases me with possibilities.
Ideas for letters,
suggestions for essays,
but not an ounce or iota
of inspiration
for a poem whose deadline
draws ever nearer
with every tock
and tick of the clock.

A poem about pockets,
and the contents therein,
yet mine remain deserted,
desolate,
devoid of any creative spark.
And my blank page mocks me.


Free verse. Written 9 January 2016.