Writer's Block

The Perfect Poem

The poet stares at his paper.
It lies there, white as a sheet.
He's attempting to write
The Perfect Poem
but is finding it hard to complete.

Well, to be honest, he hasn't made a start.
He's taken the top off his biro
and is determined to think perfect thoughts
but all he's managed so far
is a quick game of crosses and noughts. (He lost).

He could write about his cat
(her name's Edith)
or his uncle whose nickname is Sam
(he's really called Harold)
or that time he sailed the Atlantic
(single-handed)
and survived on one tin of Spam
(but he'd be lying).

Perhaps today's not the day
for perfection?
Perhaps today's not the day
to begin?

But still the poet stares at his paper
and his paper stares straight back
at
him.



Copyright Bernard Young 2011