No matter how hard I try, today I'm coming up dry. This ditty might have to do:

Yeah, toes are cool. I've got
ten myself & they're great.
Always down there, never
asking for thanks, never
demanding anything.

You got toes? How many?

I really wanted to write a poem about a man, a young son, a snow covered ice rink, a sled and a patient desire to play hockey. Somehow, nothing came of my thoughts, though I watched this guy use a sled to clear a wide patch of snow on the ice. Each stroke was measured and unhurried, it almost seemed like clear ice was beside the point by the time he got going. I skated through the snow.

I read this explanation for my troubles today. I'll share it here and hopefully won't fall prey to the phenomenon:

It should be clear that in dealing with the choice of subject we are dealing with one of the vital factors in poetry or in any art. Great numbers of poets come and go who have never had a subject at all.

-Wallace Stevens