Writer’s Block

I cough them down, keep them.

Words clamber up my veins, taking another route.
Their slow thrumbeat
begins to form a consensus. I leave them to their
skidaddling while I drive the minivan
full of children to their houses.

That sound?  An undertone,
an overtone, a mixture of paints.
Your smattering
rainlike intelligence coats the windshield. I
cannot see the road. The white line
between breath and sweat blurs. The oncoming
traffic, if there is any, swerves. Confidence
is nil.

I write “the rich valley soil”
thinking of you.
I comb the syllables
looking for the parts that matter.
The door opens,
the children exit.
I could use “sparklers” but how awful, and besides
nothing like it rhymes with anything I want to say,
not anything at all.

Advertisements

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s