Saturday, July 9, 2016

Writer’s Block


My writing desk is an unhinged metal door from a public restroom stall. No metaphor. It’s two, three-drawer file cabinets perfectly spaced so as to hold one slightly dented beige public restroom door flat across their tops. It’s my frugal wife’s favorite I-told-you-so (didn’t cost us a dime). The trick is situating the left-over hole from the now removed locking mechanism somewhere at the back and covering it with a printer or a picture frame or a pencil-holder or some other such functionality capable of hiding a non-necessary hole without falling through (don’t try putting the hole in front and using it as a cup holder). The setup fits nicely inside a clothesless clothes closet with bi-fold doors that keep the entire affair out of sight when the blear of staring at a blinking black curser on a blank white page starts to define your style. Well, it conceals everything except the rolling desk chair, which spends most of each day looking like the thing that just doesn’t  belong as it sits empty between the closed closet doors and the wooden Winnie-the-Pooh-sheeted crib that is the real reason for this poem.

First appeared in RAIN Magazine - 2016

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