The Pandemic Killed my Poetry

During this never-ending pandemic, our car died a slow and painful death. With everyone working and learning from home, our road trips have been limited, not even venturing out to the store but opting for groceries being delivered instead. But on one of our rare outings from the house, one of my children, (and it honestly could have been any one of them), left an internal light on. Days, weeks, maybe even months went by - and the car was slowly dying in our driveway. We had no idea as it suffered it's death right outside our window. By the time AAA arrived, it was declared it dead. Needed a completely new battery. It's energy depleted with lack of use. This is an obvious correlation to my own writing practice. This pandemic has literally sucked the energy out of my creativity. All the time in the world and less time than ever. Time t

o write, but nothing to write about. I feel like that man in the Twilight Zone episode - the one where he collects all of the books he never had time to write. Organizes them into neat piles, ready to read to his heart's delight; only to accidentally crush his only pair of reading glasses. And he's trapped there, with all of the time and everything he desires just outside of his grasp. And here I am, a poet with so much time, but nothing to say.