Fresh Thought

I must sit and write a poem

I reach down to scratch my ankle

It is time to write a poem

The itch travels up my left leg

Poetry drifts so far away

I scratch and scratch at my left hip

This is a night to write a poem

Now I'm scratching my right shoulder

Inspiration fades in the dark

Where is the calamine lotion?

Now meter has escaped with rhyme

I'm about to claw my skin off

There is no thought, no song, no poem

My muse died of poison ivy