Wringing Out a Few Limp Lines

Daylight drags its feet, its slippers are grey and pad silently. Long after dawn night keeps rolling over in its grave refusing to die or give way. Bats flutter listlessly in twilit belfries somewhere upon a moonlit pond a trout is crossing over a fishy Rubicon. It is belly-up, a mottled death gleams upward where only yesterday it leapt. The dawn is going nowhere. In dew-wet theme parks unicorns shake their soggy manes. The cat dreams on and will not visit the litterbox for hours yet. I am bogged down inside a poem seeking not, rhyme nor reason, but a little wiggle room, a plausible excuse why this tardy day has marooned me just nowhere, with nothing more to say.