White Flag Hoisted Poem by Paul Brookes

It's not a day to write,
words hang heavy leaden weights,
stubborn and mutinous.
no longer skipping, they incline sluggish,
pulled centrifugal to the sides;
sticking then sliding off the page into cracks.
ink stains washing down the drain.

maybe it's too hot for words.

trying to tempt them out with tea and sympathy
having had enough they demand more pay,
and a least one day off a week.

they have, in short, gone on strike.

the Muse is no arbitrator and tells me it's my problem,
which is somewhat unfair but then she has,
dramatic pause, a tendency to exaggerate.
it seems all that is left is cliche
so I surrender and agree terms.