To sit and stare at a blank space
where words are supposed to be
is the enigma that I face today:
should I write about nothing or
should I pretend there is something
and just start typing?
I feel a fizzle where my imagination
is supposed to be; surely I could write
a playscript or a radio script or a film script
but no; all I have to do is write a poem.
Words sit on the shelves of my brain
like unripe olives that will not leave the tree
(talk about your mixed simile!)
Maybe the words sit on the branches of my brain
like olives with their pages glued together.
All I can think of when I think of olives is
the delicious olives of Tuscany, which we cannot
approximate here because Canadian merchants will not sell
olive oil that is opalescent, the way they sell it in Italy
I prefer olives that are stored in olive oil to
those stored in vinegar.
That makes me hungry; I think I’ll stop and have some olives.
This is what I write when I’m blank.
At least it’s writing.