“You should write a poem about writer’s block,” he said
With all that is going on and on and on in my head?
If I could empty out the old, breathe in the new
I wouldn’t be sitting right here, talking to you
I would be happily tapping away at the keys
In my fantastical, illogical, productive version of Heaven
Instead of changing the meter and method
Of a poem that has no direction
Strange rhyme without reason
what rhymes with reason, anyway?
Season. Season rhymes with reason
So does freezin’ — but that’s not even close
to the point.