Running out

My car ran out of petrol at the lights.

It coughed and died. I didn’t see the red

light flashing on the dash. I had to shove

it off the road and call the R.A.C.                         

 

The cartridge in my printer’s drying up.

The pages that it prints are bleached-bone white

with just a ghost of ink. I have to hold

them to the light and squint my eyes to see.

 

And when I went to check the fridge last night

I found it empty as a Pharaoh’s tomb

ransacked by thieves. The automatic light

lit up the void below, around, above.

 

I woke today to find I cannot write.

It feels a lot like falling out of love.

 

© Helen Lewis 2006

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