Exhausted

When the toothpaste

refuses the merest smear

no matter how hard you squeeze,

and the shampoo’s enough

for  a mouse’s ears,

when a tea bag has valiantly

served for three cups

and the dog won’t go for a walk,

we say they are exhausted.

When the printer gives

 negative messages

about the state of its ink,

when the cash supply

won’t buy you a pint

and there’s no more corn for the hens,

we say these things are exhausted.

Right now I’m beating my brains,

pleading for something to write,

for something that rhymes

or is funny or sad,

for a striking image,

a metaphor glinting

among the dregs or my mind;

the tube of inspiration

I’ve squashed and squeezed

and it’s yielded never a smear.

It seems it too is  exhausted.