In keeping with both my promise of more work, and the recent theme of restlessness inherent in the drought of writing, I give you:
Not a short story, essay, haiku or limerick
It feels, tonight, as though
I should be writing,
penning a short story,
a poem or two, an essay—
for God’s sake,
at least a haiku or limerick.
So I prepare my mind
for the task at hand in my
pseudo-traditional way,
scraping together a stiff drink
of gin and club soda and lemon
(as I am out of tonic and lime)
and heading outside to enjoy
this and a cigarette in the
cool night fog of summer.
I light with a cardboard match
from a hotel book, douse it
with the dew settling on the
table, and press my pen
to the paper. And wait.
And sip. And
drag. And swill.
And wait. And
pull. And gulp.
And blow. And
wait.
Finally, after the cigarette
is burnt to a nub, and there’s
not a gulp’s worth left in
my low-ball glass or a word
down on the page, I sigh
and lean back in my chair,
trying to figure out whether
that bright speck in the sky
is Venus or Jupiter. Eventually,
I open the white storm door
and head back inside, not yet
convinced that tonight was
not meant for writing, but
that I will need a bit more
coaxing before anything
spills out onto the page.
Quite frankly, I’m still waiting…
