waiting for the plumber


    One could wish for a day that was carbonated,
    words rising effervescently, even effortlessly
    to the top, bubbles of hope bursting on the
    surface. Today is not that day; nor yesterday.
    I’m waiting for the plumber to come find the
    block on our main drain, somewhere between
    here and the street, underneath the growing
    grass and the nascent hasta, underground
    where the words are trapped in the sludge,
    unable to bore their way to the surface, or to
    flow through to the drain under the street.

    One would think, in these days so full of
    friends and family and meaning, the real
    struggle would be to keep the words from
    coming; how could I keep from writing?
    My life goes on, breakless and brakeless,
    trading exhaustion for expression, even as
    my heart fills up and overflows. My body
    stops and my mind races on; my brain
    finally tires and I toss and turn. Be still,
    I say, but I can’t. Instead, I pace the house
    looking for words, waiting for the plumber.



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