Waiting for the Thing That Almost Always Comes (A Poem About Inspiration)

there you are
seated in your
new usual spot
staring off into
a silent stream
of thought, and
your roommate
asks you what
you’re doing and
you say: writing.
you close your
laptop and set it
beside you on the
couch. most of my
writing is not-writing, you say.
most of my writing
looks like this. he
grunts as he kicks
back a bottle of beer
& then says your
bathrobe looks
comfortable. you
tell him that it is.
you think about
things that have
happened. you look
around at the room.
after a few minutes
the doorbell rings.


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