going to the well

you wring out the same
wet towel
each morning, dipping your
pen into a well
of dark ink.
you write another half poem,
half story
about a well
worn subject. but why not.
there are only
so many things to talk about.
love,
the end of love.
sex, death,
work. nature. getting old.
being young.
children.
pets. health and money,
or the lack thereof.
food.
coffee.
I guess houses too.
places you've lived in,
places you've yet to go.
what about a poem about the moon.
yeah.
a thousand of those, oh and
did I mention love
or the end of love.