Poem: Elmer's Brand Writers' Block

"Write" she said
but a stubbornness comes over my fingers
and each word is glue squeezed out of the tube
made thin with previous squeezings.
The hard white words that have dried around
the mouth have no stick left to them.
They wall in the flow of words, block up
any escape. I am inclined to discard this tool
as used up, dried up but I can see
my tube of poetry is nearly full.

I pick at it, chipping as much at my nails.
Poke a pin in it. It bleeds white for a moment
before clotting. Stab to no avail.
I try whetting it with my tongue, prying off
this cement from the plastic applicator
with teeth and mouth.

But the taste of last week's words is bitter,
gluey and clumps at my lips, making me gag.

Remember in kindergarten how the paste
fascinated? But that was different stuff:
words that weren't made to last. Minty
but useless for securing anything firmly.
Frail vocabularies the makers must have known
we'd drop on the ground and put back in our
mouths again. Or noses.

Those words were made light, impermanent
enough to wash off our dirty hands and faces
before nap time.

In kindergarten, we all used the same tube.
Today we will paint a flower but not the truth.
The truth is too unpredictable
and discouraged by the PTA.

As adults we want stronger stuff.
Industrial strength metaphor and permanent inks.
On my back shelf is one strong enough to etch glass.
But Terrence this is silly stuff, I struggle with
this sticky tube stuck with ideas
I forgot to wipe off the applicator.

For the moment, I surrender.
Entropy wins again.
But I will return with scissors and cut off the blocked end
and it will spill out thickly, messy and cover everything.