I fight writer’s block,
Shakespeare and Steinbeck taunt
me from inside musty books.
My retinas burn watching the candle flame
dance exotically, flooding
my room with lavender fragrance.
Electronics hum, meandering feet
thud to the bathroom, the furnace roars
and my wooden chair groans
in the sleeping household.
I wait for the words.
at first, like
tent, the words drip
into my mind.
In a sudden surge, they drown me but thin lined stationery soaks up the scribbled words.
I write of how Steinbeck mocks me and about that dot of light stamped
into my eyes from the candle; I write of the blossom aroma infusing
the room and the muted symphony of house-hold noises.
I write until once again
my mind palace
But at least
I wrote this.