R L Swihart

Writer’s Block

R L Swihart

I didn’t write a poem for over a week

A close friend died. Someone I only knew from a distance died, but he temporarily resurrected two beautiful souls

I flew here and drove there, always listening to the subtle rhythms of the engine

I waited for the sun to come out. I waited for the rain to stop

Instead of writing a poem I wrote condolences

I wrote a note to a shut-in about the parade

I booked a room near Shelter Valley and scribbled plans about my visit

I rolled out of bed (but it was your alarm). Showered first. Left imprints on two eyelids refusing to wake

R L Swihart was born in Michigan but now resides in Long Beach California. His work has sparsely dotted both the Net and hardcopy literary journals (Cordite, Pif Magazine, The Literary Bohemian, Offcourse, Otoliths, Denver Quarterly, Quadrant Magazine, The Bookends Review). His third book of poetry was released July 2020: Woodhenge.