In the current issue of PA’s Poetic Voices:

INCOMPLETE

By the second week
I searched for an ending
without real hope.
Ran through the usual—
birth death,
youth old-age
middle-age, angst,
hoping to find
something stirring
I might use
to close
without a thud.

Shame.
The poem is packed
with gorgeous similes—
ice like frozen water,
and verbs—
propel, propulse, and pulsate,
that rocket you to Mars,
but I’ve no idea
how to end it.

Perhaps
a single word
might provide
inspiration,
so I thumbed through
my Oxford and its
companion thesaurus.
Millions of words
waiting to take
their place just before
that final period.
No dice.

I try to find
a way out
through memories
of friends and family,
book titles,
and words
that end
my favorite movies—
“beautiful friendship”
doesn’t fit.

Then I remembered
what my mentor
told me
that changed my life.
He said