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