Monday, November 2, 2020

the vandals stole the handle

i go to the faucet
to turn
off the drip.

impossible. words
keep
coming out.

i squeeze harder, press
down
on the knob.

i take a wrench and
turn
at the pipe until
it groans,

but no.
the imagination
won't turn off.

it's a runaway train,
the opposite

of writer's block.
i'm knee

deep in paper.

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