it’s 11 p.m.; the screen is blank,
my mind is blank; the fish bang their
heads against the tank wall;
there is nothing of significance in my life
to write about; I wonder if those brown bugs
under my sink are cockroaches; we had those
growing up: I would be horrified if my
house had cockroaches and are there
really mites in my bed or rats in my garden;
how awful to think of these things.
he told me my name was his password;
and my fish, Isabelle, died today so I can’t name
anymore fish Isabelle; now it’s just Arnie the Tank
and Sylvester Stallone Junior; he’s not going
to die with a name like that; and when he gets
in the shower and I have finished my frozen Snickers
bar, I’ll finish this poem.
This is how I write a poem.