In The Closet

Confronting that percieved nemesis, Writer's Block.

I'm in that closet again.

That locked, boarded-up closet
where the big block sits.

It's a massive thing,
like a dark granite stone
chiseled from the side
of a mountain.

Black and square and dense,
it blocks my sight, my senses,
my exit.

Feeling it in the dark,
tracing my hands along its
smooth, hard surface,
I shove against it,
push it with my shoulder,
strain and grunt,
using the power
of my legs.

It doesn't budge.

My hands explore again
searching for a dent,
a crack, a bump,
a hand hold, a toe hold,
some way to climb up
on it, over it —
some way to get to
the other side.

I find none.

Making my way to
its far edges,
I find it jammed tight
against the closet walls.
I can't squeeze through
though I "think thin"
like Pooh Bear.

But I can't think
thin enough.

Exhausted, sweating,
feeling weak, unable
to push or shove
or lift or squeeze
any longer,
I close my eyes,
turn, sit down,
head in hands,
and lean against it.

When I open my eyes
a sharp light stabs
through the keyhole
of the unlocked
rear door.