The poet’s iPhone Notes froze.
All of the keys on her laptop dissolved.
The ink in her pens dried out.
The lead in her pencils melted.

She looked around her room.
Where had all the beauty gone?
The walls looked beiger than normal;
Her windows grubby;
The carpet claggy;
Her ceiling black.

The poet sat on her chair
And picked her nose.

© Carl Burkitt 2016