The Muse, the Knife and the Football

I love to write

When words slide smoothly

As butter from a hot knife,

I love to write when

Ideas flow as quickly

As a brook in spring thaw,

I love to write

When my muse whispers words

So clear that my fingers can’t keep up,

I love to write

During the quiet hours when no

One interrupts my thoughts,

But not today

The stories dance around my head

Visually, I can see the characters and

The narrative, even the dialogue,

But somehow from point A to point B

Something is lost, And

Cutting a football.