Not Writing
The pen is the tongue of the mind.
~ Miguel de Cervantes
I’m creative as a lamppost tonight,
the ignition switch
burned out.
Spotlight blown from a single branch
along this rutted, side-worn street.
I’m emptied of loquacious lovers,
of one old Italian monk;
a golden dog licks his leg,
makes his mark, smooth and easy.
Words, words everywhere –
and not one S placed right.
Where lurk the amorous vowels?
Swept along by elliptical ships, feasting
on amaranth pears?
Tonight, teach me
the timing of a tangent,
the cartography of a constellation.
No, no, not tonight dear.
Not there, not here.
—Susan Rich
____
first published in Quarterly West last year.