4:30 AM isn’t too late to stay up cooking up something. Looking at a blank screen that is begging for some input. Frustration mixed with the expectation that maybe something will materialize. The fridge calls, the wind howls, and the cell beeps its updates. But where is the actual blank screen? It isn’t really the glaring blue screen the burning bleary eyes stare at. Instead, everything the chattering mind registers as uninteresting and unworthy of poetry. Poetry. What is it anyway? You know it when you hear and see it, yet a poem cannot be defined or adequately explained. And poetry doesn’t feel like it’s contrived. Yet, how many have sat behind keyboards or blank papers or parchments with quill in hand, waiting … Hours fly by. Whiskers get heavier. The pot becomes rounder and softer. Coffee doesn’t help. Maybe a sedative? Impatience settles in like ticks on a mangy dog. The feeling that there just isn’t enough time nags you like a dripping faucet. But like old faithful, the pressure builds until the feverish tapping of keys.