This is poem post two hundred three for the year
And I thought I’d try something unusual here:
In the morning, when juices creative are flowing,
I’ll write, so I don’t approach midnight not knowing
If this is the day that the wordstream runs dry,
And I’m not forced to write on what catches my eye
As I frantically scan my surroundings for clues
To a concept that might, if I force-feed my Muse,
Result in a sonnet, quatrain or haiku
I’ll then rush to thrust into the publishing queue
At the risk of appearing an unlettered bumpkin
For errors induced by the proximate pumpkin…

…well, that was the plan, anyway, but now look:
It’s forty past eight, not that late, but it took
Nearly 900 minutes from “pumpkin…” to “…well,”
And what’s written’s emitting that New Pumpkin Smell
So it’s time to bring verse two-oh-three to its end,
Find a rhymed resolution, click Save, and hit Send.