Out of Ideas

Out of ideas? I laugh in my soup. Vegetables, taters, peas, corn. Out of ideas? I drink my coffee. Pancakes, waffles, new ideas are born. Out of ideas? My muse smacks me hard up the side of my head. She twirls her pasties, and reminds me we will write ‘til we’re dead. Out of ideas? I look at the sink. A cup, fork, spoon, tiny bug on the brink. Out of ideas? The alarm clock goes off and make me irritated real quick. Out of ideas? After I have given you at least fifteen in this bit of a think? Perhaps you are not a writer; maybe you’d better be a pole dancer, slick.