Writer’s Lament

If I could write,
I would write you
a chocolate cake,
and frost it with
carefully chosen phrases,
not sugar-laden
clichés from the can.

Or if I could write,
I would write you
a late summer day,
burnt-orange sky,
cicadas singing in your ear,
not the grating bark
of our neighbor’s dog.

But today I cannot write,
and so it is
peanut butter and jelly,
as we listen
to August rain
drip into the
bucket by the door.