Half-Done Grid

Underneath the pile of yesterday’s news,

an open magazine, a mind’s loose

threads. My own hand, weeks ago I guess,

had started in, a quiet mental press.

'Small rodent,' five letters: M-O-U-S-E.

Neat, contained. Then the next, a kind of truce

with logic. 'Ancient City,' three blocks wide.

Totally blank. Nothing left inside

my head that day, or maybe just

a sudden shift, a loss of trust

in the whole endeavor. A pencil lying near,

its lead worn blunt. A small, dry tear

in the paper where I’d erased.

All that good intention, quickly displaced.