Poemless in West Jordan.

Yes, that's right, dear reader, it's Saturday night, tomorrow's my poetry group, and I got nothing.

So, my options are:

1. Try some constrained poetry exercise thing-y, preferably from my notes from AWP, the small portion of my notes that I didn't lose on an airplane.
2. Take an old, hoary poem from the September Poem-a-day project of Dr. Write's and mine and see if I can make it better.
3. Finish the canzone I started last August. (To this, I say, ha.)
4. Be inspired by some new subject matter or bit of language or image. Or something.

To wit, there was a bit of wonderful dialogue in the movie the historian and I saw tonight, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, which was quite a charming little number, but that's not the point. Let me, for a moment, cite: Frances McDormand, dressed in a horrible brown dress and a horrible drab overcoat, and sad, horrible hair, stands with Amy Adams, resplendent in a robin's egg blue ensemble completed with beautiful burgundy shoes, at a shop window. Three mannequins sport scarlet dresses of various styles, but are also wearing gas masks--it's the eve of World War II. As they gaze at the window:

Miss Pettigrew (F. McDormand), who has lived through and remembers WWI: It's so frightening.

Delycia Lafosse (A. Adams): I know. Cap sleeves. What a nightmare.

I wish I could make a poem out of that.