Writer's Block

Circa 2000: I was trying for humor :-)

Under the desk,

still warm, hides

a mechanical pencil,

the point lost

inside the barrel, the

eraser rubbed flat.

Next to the desk,

still cold, spills

a stockpile of

crumpled white paper:

cannibalistic snowballs

eager to feed

on the next litter.

On the desk,

still ambivalent, rests

a single sheet of

lined white paper,

blue lines creating

row after row

of tiny, empty

shelves waiting

to be filled like Old

Mother Hubbard’s

cupboard.

“The children are hungry,”

cries the paper

to the pencil,

“But Mother is too poor

to feed them,” answer

the gluttonous snowballs,

mockingly.