When a trickle became a torrent.

When a trickle became a torrent.

While the makings of poetry

lay in piles of scribbles.

The mechanic, called...

could not fix any verse;

words spread like 

nuts and bolts

across the floor.

Neither could the baker

get my thoughts to rise.

Nor the masseuse 

could soothe the 

back-pain tattooed

with stops and commas.

It was all lost......

even the recycler

failed to salvage

a phrase worth keeping.

The gardner said. 

"Landfill."

I replied.

"My mind is all, but full."

" I had to empty."