another sunday morning

i haven't had an original thought in weeks. i felt the sickness coming on at the end of may. things were going along swimmingly. i was in a gulf stream of creativity, waking up nights and mornings alert with images worth capturing in the hour or two before dawn, before the normal working day took over. so powerful was the diversion it began encroaching on the rest of my day. time long set aside to make business calls, to make a living, became time to sneak in a poem or two, a fragment, a phrase to use later. poetry stared at me from every object and situation, quickly becoming a distraction from mandated activity that had and would underwrite the lifestyle i'd already committed to. basic routines grew vulgar; non-essential activities transformed nearly to addiction. i hungered for verse. had i not stopped writing, would i have been able to fill the well and slowly risen to the top, climbing out of it by volition? had i turned my back on the one true lover, and would she forgive me? if i called, would she come back? could i find her if i tried? or was it simply an affair of the mind, all heart, no body, to which there could be no return? in consideration, i file away the meeting notes, the descriptives of our trysts, place them in a sealed metal box, bury it near the old ash pit where one day it may take root and grow. meanwhile, i melt away like dry ice on a summer day, with no more ice cream to preserve.