The poet was having a bad day

The poet was having a bad day. And a worse night. There was no poetry left. He couldn’t find a word, rhyme or no rhyme, anywhere. He searched deep in his mind. Perhaps some haiku might help, something simple, disciplined, get the ball rolling.
Couldn’t get seventeen syllables to come together at all.

He needed a walk, despite it being past midnight. Too bad, He had to get out of the house, into the air. Communing with the summer moon and stars should shake this futility.

The poet threw ...