The Third Day of the New Year and…

Even the ceiling is pure white,
not a crack or a stain  anywhere.
The windows are all sealed tight;
the door jambs are square.
There ought to be some imperfection,
anything to spawn inspiration.
Everybody knows it’s the cracks
that invite the light to come in.
Even the Aflac duck has deserted.
I think his boat must have sunk…
or caught in the limbo of holidays gone
with no paddle and nothing that floats.
Woe is the poet in the garret
with naught but a pen and a sigh,
and a dream of the masterpiece poem
that he plans to write bye and bye.

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