I have written too many words today
and now I’m out.
They needed to be written. The book won’t write itself.
This is how I earn
whatever fraction of a cent
they pay me for every letter.
The problem is that now I’m out of words
and have started to forget the names of things
like that thing, right over there,
the gray one
that isn’t a toaster.
I turn on the radio in search of words.
It doesn’t help.
The radio’s words are all “jobless rate” and “insider trading.”
I can’t do anything with that
like trying to fill a dry well up
There are no words growing in the garden
and reading is unsettling
those words echo too much
their footfalls sounding in an empty hall
with no words of my own to muffle them.
And the worst part—
the very worst—
the fear that now I am deprived of prose
and will be forced to communicate in poetry
or worse yet