Writing

I pick up my pen I set out to write Nothing comes out Not the birds nor the bees Not the busy streets Not the poor boy begging for alms If my pen does not comply it is not entirely my fault Maybe it is just not inspired Maybe it is looking for a partner pen A companion whose ink is red or white Maybe today my pen does not want to be alone Would I write with both hands at the same time Write in English and another tongue until the words meet right in the middle of my journal right at its spine as the right pen kisses the tip of the left red ink mingling with black making love on top of the page before I sign my name