This Unpleasing Bauble

I just ran dry this week. I couldn’t think
Of anything, not slowly, not in haste,
Although words may seep from my pores like paste,
Erato sometimes giving me the wink
And bam! A sonnet! Could I use a drink?
No, all I had was absinthe, and one taste
Made me forget pentameter. Disgraced,
I huddled underneath the kitchen sink.

When I came out, I watched the summer sky
And felt my lack of resolution wobble,
Sure that, with good luck, I could somehow cobble
Some verse for you, not aiming very high.
I knew I was only one sonnet shy,
So I concocted this unpleasing bauble.