I have been distraught by my failure to produce a single new poem so far this month, of all months the one during which I should, right? What vague inspiration I have enjoyed lately has been insufficient for sustained poetic creation. Until today. Enjoy, y’all, and please let me know what you think.
Elegy for a Stillborn Pastoral
With heavy heart I heave a sigh
and cry for miscarried inspiration.
On my way to work today,
it struck: a poem about gazing
through my office window,
faithfully reporting all I observed
on the street of my little town
as locals came and went while
feckless spring dithered again
on a cool gray April morning.
Or so I imagined.
Alas, an accident ahead delayed me.
Traffic-halting violent collision
dealt my act of artistic creation
a grievous blow, but I recovered.
Clinging tight to tenuous threads,
I rushed to work, took up my pen,
looked out my window,
put pen to paper–
and scratched an ugly, blotched
blue line when startled by the
ringing phone. I wrung my hands
and answered then reached once more
with twitching fingers for my
eager pen and got it moving.
I’d just begun to write about Bill,
good-natured bail bondsman,
sauntering up the street smiling,
warmed by thoughts, no doubt,
of last night’s successful rescue
of a distraught runaway teen when
the first of several of my own wayward
charges reported unscheduled and
in dire need of guidance then
the phone rang again. Consecutive
emails re: URGENT appeared then
the phone rang again. My wife texted,
a friend dropped in, vexed. Then
the phone rang again.
At lunch, I picked at cooling hot wings
and fretted as the final feeble wisps
of my poor aborning poem floated off
on bitter currents of black despair,
dying the death of a thousand distractions.