the muddy shoes

you are running
out of things to write
about, she tells
you as she scrapes
mud off the bottom
of her shoes.
you're repeating
yourself. i've read
the same poem
nine times, the
one where she says,
he says, etc. etc.
i'm getting bored.
she continues to look
up at you in the morning
sun, her shoes now
off and on the porch,
wet and soaked with
creek water
and mud. i don't
care, you tell her.
i write what i want
to write. i write
for me not you,
and now i refuse
to even write about,
as i once was,
your pink feet and
those muddy shoes.