Writer’s Block 1
An old man sits (hat in his fist)
in the park where police come to reminisce.
He sat there quietly (thinking of lovers)
when an officer of aggressive disposition came over.
“What’s this?” he asked, kicking the box.
(Next to the man’s feet laid his briefcase with locks.)
“My book,” he said, hoarse throated from smoking.
“I’m a writer of novels,” he coughed, half choking.
“This is my masterpiece, my magnum opus, if you will.
I’ve been working on it since 1940 or 50 and still
it has one chapter till it’s complete.
I’ve been coming here everyday to think about it…”
At this the officer stepped forward and asked,
“Do you think you could pack up your things? Not to lambaste…”
“Not to lambaste? I’ll be the decider of that
once I hear your reason for removing me from where I’m at.”
“Now old man, don’t get all flustered.
I’m nicely asking you take your hat and your gusto
and nicely walk away from this public place
and nicely brainstorm at home or a cafe.”
“You tell me to leave? It’s coldhearted and naive.
Of the trees I adore I’ll be bereaved.
What is it to you that I sit here and think?
I’ve done nothing beside sit here and clink
the numbers on my briefcase’s locks.
Maybe… Oh, yes… There’s an interesting thought…
I’ll get my revenge by making you a character in my novel.
A diabolical pig, perhaps. Yes… I like the sound of ‘diabolical’.”
|—||Jon Krakauer (Into the Wild)|