Blocked

Poems stuck in the branches
of everyday thought
stories stifled by anxiety.

Calling for inspiration
in the dead of night
yet no muse comes.

Torn and crumbled pages
litter the floor.

Exhaustion takes its toll;
the brain won’t cooperate.
It darts between ideas,
like a cat chasing a laser.

Oh, phone.
Oh, YouTube,
it’s research.

Two hours later.

Kitten videos,
still research.
The mind convinces itself.

Crumbled over the desk,
nothing,
squiggles,
make sure the pen is working.
Splatters form when it doesn’t.

Random thoughts come,
writing them down
because at least it’s something.

Something
is always better
than a blank page.

Kim Sealock
9-1-19

Collection

He must have a collection
of metal cat food bowls,
that line his den,
that he has stolen
from my back porch.

I curse his name
when I come home
to one less
cat food bowl.

That makes five
that have gone missing.
I know it has to be
Bandit, with his
love of shiny things.

It’s eleven o’clock,
and I’ll catch him in the act;
running off the porch
with a bowl clutched in his tiny hands.

He stares at me
from under masked eyes;
he drops the bowl
and runs up the closest tree;
looking down upon
me in hopes I’ll leave,
so that he can add to his collection.

I sigh and shout,
“Not this time, Mr. Racoon.”

Kim Sealock
7-20-19

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