MARCH

and there's no denying now
the year has begun, the ball
has been dropped, the apple
has been eaten, and that he
is in Michigan screwing
his new girlfriend.  Says it's awful;
hasn't written anything since
January.  That's just how it is.
Not that he's complaining.
I think he's implying
that I should have plenty
of fodder for great literature.
I also think he thinks that
this should make me feel better
somehow.  What he doesn't know is
I haven't written since December,
and great literature doesn't need
loneliness.  It doesn't need
empty rooms or broken
organs.  My writer's block is proof
he is fooling himself;
like a farmer
blaming constellations
for a bad harvest, like a man
blaming evil on a woman
who blames a snake
for eating an apple. That would be
just like him.