I pick my brain

Rumage through trash thoughts

for a satisfying morsel, a deep adjective.

“Spare phrases? Got any phrases to spare?”

They race through the mind and cramp when I pick up a pen

It just drips ink

Blots on the page

In obscure and obtuse ways

What does it look like to you, Al?

Word bank-empty

memories - liquidated

assets- frozen

Is this what it’s like to be homeless?

Have I reach the proverbial bottom?

Does my head rest against it?

Or is that your boney shoulder I drool on?