Afternoon Muse Poem by Andy Brookes

No inspiration the pen lies abandoned.
I feel desiccated, a husk, dry as old parchment.

Glaring at me the creamy white paper lies like a vacant lot
or a fall fresh snow, cold, on a patch of lawn.

lawn an old word for linens; the connections not lost.

'I miss your little.'the emphasis on little 'constructions.' she said

which makes me feel like a scaffolder
'your prissy precise prose.'she alliterates.

I feel my ire rise.
she hasa twinkle in her eyes, green, deep as oceans, flecked with kelp.

I begin to write as she sashays to the window lighting a cigarette.
her silhouette writhes in smoke and turns smiling the victor.