Creativity Aborted

The smoke rises
wafting gray flumes
as the cigarette burns away

her mind is drifting

a scented halo encircles her head
if not for the ashtray
you would think she was blowing smoke

literally

Her eyes glassy
red rimmed
about to brim
over

Chubby fingers start to fly
thunk, thunk, thunk

red tips
like cardinal feathers dancing
words, words, words

but no hope of realization

a sigh of desperation escapes
a rushing gasp
papers dance on the edge of the antique table

Nostrils burning
as the cigarette eats itself
formaldehyde, arsenic

filter burning now
and she remembers
reaching for a crumbled pack

blue bic
start again

Sun drifts across a December sky
blue room to gray room to dark

the glow of a dime store lamp
burns feebly
against the glow of connection

diversion
distraction

efforts to kill
the poem
before its birth.

Natasha Head