by Nick Osborne
There's a mammoth obstruction in the hallway from my brain to my hands. It's right in front of the french doors to my imagination garden. Words try to sq ueeze by, but they get stuck and eventually give one of those blowing-air-ou t-your-mouth sighs and sit down. Sometimes, to pass the time, they play chec kers or go back into the garden to read or tend other growing words. But eve ry morning they're at it again, looking for a way out. Just this morning I s aw some gridlocked words poking their heads above the block, waving at me, t rying to get my attention (as if I didn't know the block was there). I half- heartedly waved back and gave them a "I know" shrug. I think in time I'll be able to pass this obstruction, like one passes a kidney stone, but in the me antime I stare at a blank page until I get bored and move on to my dry day.