some days there is no poetry

and words come out like nervous tics

or syllables like a loosened lock

hanging in front of your face

some days there is no poetry

but the grudging, requisite grunt

in reply to the silent calculation

of how many minutes before the bus comes

some days there is no poetry

for the numbskulled boredom of eyebrows clenched

at the same damn floor tiles hour after hour

and the same damn coffee and vending machines

some days there is no poetry

any more than the wind can sleep