There's a shape in my head, where the word should fit,
But I can't for the life of me think of it.
Ideas run away like frightened mice
And half-formed thoughts melt like ice.
And a long-running metaphor falls to its knees
And the silent room stares politely at me,
While I try to remember why I began it—
What was my point, 'fore my tongue over-ran it?
There's a beet-red pause, and somebody coughs.
'Did you see on the news, that the talks are off?'
The stalled conversation once again rolls;
While I wish the floor would swallow me whole.
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