The Ink's Run Dry

The Ink's Run Dry
By Jake Kobrin. August 2012

The ink’s run dry,
I fear.
And all the lead’s been shattered
in their dusty boxes.
Even the colored tubes,
my wasted fortunes,
have gone belly up
in their smelly coffins.

She just won’t come out to play anymore.
She left me blank,
left me in a staring contest,
with begrugged, neglected canvases.

Sometimes they shout at me,
taunting me,
trying to provoke me,
make me lose my cool.
Sometimes they give me the silent treatment,
turn their gessoed faces to the wall,
pretend they don’t see me.

Some day she’ll be back.
Sneak up on me in the middle of the night,
give me a good little jolt.
And before you know it,
the paint’ll run slick on their bald woven faces,
just like before.