"Sometimes all we do is cope / somewhere on the steepest slope / is an endless rope"

[larryhammer]

Some weeks, just getting a sonnet out feels like a victory.

As when a goldsmith draws a pliers pinch
of reddish metal through an iron plate,
but his gold's gone too cold for pulling straight
and so he strains for every wire inch;

and as a rower a length behind the leader
pulls hard with all she has, arms legs lungs head
burning with every stroke that doesn't speed her
because she hasn't enough to pull ahead;

so do I stare at this white screen, this row
of black letters as meaningless as the dead,
and for all I try to make this story go,
each word is drawn from under fingernails
as if by pincers, till I drop my head
onto the keyboard where my writing fails.

Why, yes, I have been watching Olympics coverage, why do you ask?

---L.