Wipers
Sometimes he writes for no reason.
Yeah, you think, I’ve seen the type.
Drunk late at night, bottle drained,
some fuzzy lexicon scrabbled in his brain.
You’d be wrong.
Last week when he was sane
and fully sober he just took off in his car.
Parked up near a Little Chef
by the Burrator reservoir
and wrote.
He told me it was mostly crap.
Other cars had tired salesmen
sleeping off lunch
with an afternoon nap.
Is this how inspiration comes?
The long, silent drive
with no place to go.
Meter set by the slap
of windscreen wipers
knocking rain to and fro…
He showed me his pad.
I couldn’t help but notice
how the ink was smudged
and wrinkled by raindrops.
I said he should keep the window closed.
He said it rains everywhere.
He thought I’d know.
Marc Woodward was born in America, raised in England and now lives in rural Devon. He has been published in several august journals. Some September ones too.His writing straddles structure and free writing – and often with a touch of humour. www.marcwoodwardpoetry.blogspot.co.uk