SUBJECT>Writer's Block POSTER>Bowen EMAIL>ashorama@aol.com DATE>1111077755 IP_ADDRESS>cache-rtc-ac03.proxy.aol.com PASSWORD>aaw.9bRdMDD2U PREVIOUS> NEXT> 84911 84912 84919 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Writer’s Block

All that’s missing is an empty bottle
to blame the blank page on. Or a dog
barking at nothing. An explosion.
That would be nice. A couple of houses
going up in flames—-that you could work
into a fine line. Wish for something
like that and you’d never forgive yourself.
But still, it’s a thought. You write it
down. House goes up in flames. Thin.
Add a couple of firemen flaming out
from a high-rise freefall. Nothing
stops them but dirt. There’s a hole
so deep somebody’s got to measure it.
Across town people are moving
out of each other’s lives, writing
long letters that don’t explain.
In a home, a man is finally ready
to put his finger into a rotary hole,
call for help. He sees the fire, falling
firemen, pulls the O to the stop.
The voice of his daughter crackles
across the line. He tells her of the burning
he has seen, bodies piling in the street,
the deep hole no one can fill.
His voice is awkward, without softness.
The daughter disconnects. It’s routine
for firemen to go up with the building,
dogs to bark at nothing, empty bottles
to roll around the room.