Mind arid as an endless desert
stretching into the horizon—
sterile weeks,
not even a scrawny,
spiny cactus idea
for a parched pen to suck.
Blistering sand sifts
through this barren brain
searching for shade
from any lonely palm tree,
a moist poem of mud
to cool these sun burned toes.
Seems like months in this
scorching Sahara of writer’s block,
tongue bone-dry thirsts for verse.
A mirage of metaphor ripples
clichés leathery as lizards,
vultures circle my journal.
Pat McCutcheon
This article appears in The Eureka Chinatown Monument.
