Three

I barely write now;

I leave that for sadder days.

How many days a week can one be sad?

I say three.

But some weeks I indulge and do a fourth.

On my desk, half a poem more —

and the wish to forget who it’s for.

Next week, only two days, I say.

The wallet near my ribs grows thin;

and I still haven’t phoned my friend.

So I walk past my notebook—indifferent,

skip the incense, skip the chamomile tea, 

ignore the rhymes I might stumble b-, across.

Not today! I shout to my pens.

How many days can a hollow hold?

Come to think of it, three might run short.

It's only noon and I’ve already spent 

more than I can afford.