Eight Poems In Middle of the Night

I have written eight poems in the middle of the night. I am beginning the ninth one, but it is clearly not right. You can do this, I admonish myself, you used to be bright. My muse stuck out her tongue and it was a fright! Do you have Covid? I asked her as I looked at the blight. She flipped on her toes and flew away, out of sight. So here I am on my own, on this dubiously super cold night. Trying to write a poem without Trixie, which simply ain’t right!