Written by m ennenbach

in which the poet refrains from writing another insipid ode

i have nothing

just the vapid dismay that flavours the words i would say if saying them meant anything at all

so

we sit

letting the silence envelop us

your move

empty room

5 thoughts on “in which the poet refrains from writing another insipid ode”

      1. Ha! I *knew* you wouldn’t remember…. you wrote a couple poems about a cat following you as you walked. You fed it. I almost didn’t comment because I was sure you would’ve forgotten. Nevermind. It’s unimportant.

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