A poem for Billy Collins

Billy Collins and the Balancing Act

I sit at my desk, trying to write.
Something. Anything.
Nothing comes.

My feet on the desk,
I lean back in my chair,
Trying to balance my coffee mug on a belly wave.
Too timid to remove my hand from the mug,
Wondering how I could explain to the world the coffee stains on my middle.

                                                     And there on my computer screen is a photo of Billy Collins.
                                                     He’s smiling, perhaps a hint of smirk in that smile of his.
                                                     Billy knows about my cowardice.
                                                     That bald-headed bastard, that charming smarty pants.
                                                     He knows.