THEY DO NOT COME

they do not come
I sit here
and scratch the backs
of my fingers
but still the words
do not come
I read an article
on masturbation
and pour myself a glass
half water and half orange juice
but still the words
they do not come
I contemplate
love and hate
life and death
men and women
cats and dogs
but still the words
they do not come
I comb my hair
and blow my nose
dig up a little tin of black shoe polish
which my house mate had asked about
but still the words
they do not come
I look around
watch my flag shiver
in the breeze
of a window fan
I get bitten by a little fly
swat at it
and end its life
but still the words
they do not come
so I give up
not forever
but for the night
and I lie down in bed
my head on the pillow
my flesh on the clean sheets
and then the words begin to come