It was practically Christmas and try as I might
I couldn’t come up with the right words to write.
My thoughts were too scattered, my mind was all jumbled.
I sat at my desk and I groaned and I grumbled.
The children were sleeping. I couldn’t blame them
For the fact I was functioning at the brain stem.
My wife in the kitchen with last minute wrapping.
My fingers were still but my toes were a tapping.
“Turn down that music!” I snapped from my study.
Then instantly felt like an old fuddie-duddie.
She turned down the sound without saying a word.
I typed four small words. They were “I am a turd.”
I backed up the cursor and stared at the screen.
It was white as the snow. It was blank. It was clean.
“Where’s the muse?” I demanded. “T’was here yesterday.”
“Take a break,” said my wife. “What you need is some play.”
To the kitchen I followed her, somewhat suspicious.
But the smells that I found there were simply delicious.
We made tons of cookies and gingerbread too.
We were covered in sweetness before we were through.
And the day after Christmas I could hardly believe
That my writing was sharper for that small reprieve.
I completed my novel, beginning to end.
It’s off to my agent. I just need to hit send.