The Word

Where did the word go?
I can barely muster prose.
I know, I know,
that’s just how it goes.
I don’t want to force it though.
There’s no poet without the poetry,
I suppose.
I can stare, I can stare,
I can stare at my phone
and hope for inspiration
but it’s hard when you’re alone.
No hope for interaction
or some action
with the bottle in my pocket
on the stage
without a name.
Maybe I’m a clone,
a pale imitation,
the ghost
of my fleeting proper youth.
“Oh, Heavenly Host,
give it back!”
But you won’t.
I see your face upon the toast,
evangelically remote,
like an anger stricken lover
whose favor melts away like
thinly sprinkled snow.

(From November 2018)

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