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!
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