I have lost Inspiration.
She, and she is always a she, is hiding
in a place I’m afraid I’ll never discover.
Unlike my niece who, since her toddler days,
scrambles behind the armchair and wraps the curtains
around her face to muffle her giggles.
Unlike my eldest nephew who tries,
even today as a gangling 14-year-old,
to contort himself under bathroom sinks.
Unlike their stubborn brother who will insist,
in increasingly louder and shriller tones,
that he was discovered by cheaters and not by his own noise-making.
No, Inspiration has scrambled and contorted and silenced herself
into a secret place inside my head.
She is hiding from me.
I’ve counted to ten and back again, turned the rocks
that litter the alleyways of my conscious.
I’ve yielded to her every night,
desperately shouting for her to emerge.
But we continue our game.