So here I am outta gas again wallowing in the proverbial writer’s block.
Time once more to look back, then ahead a little just to take stock.
I know this happens at least once, sometimes twice a year to me
It’s no secret I usually turn to poetry which offers a kind of remedy.
Last time this happened I wrote a poem about my garage of all things,
And now I’m cleaning and painting it despite all the joint pain it brings.
This chamber must oddly have connection to my writer’s block somehow
Every time the block arrives, I’m involved with the garage, just like now.
And here I thought it was just storage space with room to park the car.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a garage secret that’s eluded me thus far.
I think I shall spend more time in the garage, sense its being, feel its zen.
I bet that might cure the block and in no time I’ll be writing again.