"...now is nowhere except underfoot..." - Mary Oliver

All today, pieces
of unrealized plans
stiffen and die,
thud to the carpet.

My small dog and I
sleep through creaking winds,
failed electricity,
silvery downpours.

Broken scepters
from mugged olive trees
drag themselves up our driveway,
knock at the windows.

Loose ends coil
around my feet.
I count a million empty
clock ticks till supper.

Poetry refuses
to be shaken
from my fingertips
into nets of blank paper.

I grow impatient
with nursery rhyme novels,
an afternoon which growls,
bulimic hours.