Writing Can Be a Dangerous Business

Vast white ghost-faced beast

beckons--no, it taunts:

"C'mon, I dare you!'

I pull out my secret weapon:

"Hah! I'm a painter, I've seen your kind before!"

I wait--we sit nose to nose, eye to eye

--nothing.

Sneak attack: I scribble, doodle, try my old favorite, penmanship ovals

in 2 directions.

It winks at me; I think I hear a chuckle.

Shift my weight, stretch, go get some coffee.

While pouring the sugar, I hear

faint rumblings way back there somewhere.

Sounds like an opening line!

I head back from the kitchen, shushing the inner dialogue,

like trying to retain a dream before it fades.

Rush to the desk--

gone.

I take a walk, my favorite all-purpose medicine

being very careful not to call it 'giving up'

No, no--I'm Taking a Break.

Into the air, nice bright sun,

birds, squirrels, carbon monoxide.

Check the pickup time on the mail box (as if it ever changes)

Cross the street and suddenly, while passing the center line rushing

to beat the truck making a left turn (no blinker)

words fly out of their backroom hideout

faster than I can record them

in the part of my brain that does that.

I barely manage to get across the road in one piece

and fumble in my pockets for a napkin, wrapper, anything to write on.

Rush toward a nearby deli

completely disheveled and slightly unhinged,

cross the rows of gas pumps where everyone is pulling out at once,

hop a few puddles, bound up the steps,

almost knock over a smallish man with his hot coffee

Get a pen and some looks from the clerk,

only to find the change in lighting or something else caused me to experience

a total blank.

But I got the final laugh--I wrote this.