Writer's Block.

Every so often,
a writer will encounter
a period that, although
they do not like to admit it,
they are stuck,
thank you very much.

No amount of postmodern literature
or Billy Collins poetry
can slay the lethargic
nature of a day in which
nothing is possible.

Strewn across my desk
are the poems I could not meter,
the essays I could not read,
the letters I did not send.

From atop the shelf
a dozen authors judge
my restlessness
and I shout, "Haven't you
ever had writer's block,
Virginia Woolf?"
which startles the cat.

Recognizing distress,
my spaniel trots through the door,
stopping briefly to peer hopefully
into the empty cookie box--
my only accomplishment.

Circling the comforter
three times,
she rests her head
atop her paws and questions,
"And what's so wrong with that?"