Nothing yet. Nothing still.
I’ve been waiting for her
for years.

The muse. My muse.
I think she’s dead.
And I cannot begin my writing career.

That is why I have emptied
many bottles today
and yesterday
and the yesterday of every today
until today.

On my desk I have a thesaurus and a dictionary,
and the best search engine in history
one tap away.
I have access to all the words
and every word’s definition and etymology,
yet today’s page is as empty as yesterday’s.

The problem is the recurring question:
How about another drink?