By Bogdan Dragos

48 days without a word written maybe there weren’t exactly 48 but he liked to feel romantic about his writer’s block A good period of writer’s block is one that makes you write about what an incapable writer you are perhaps tomorrow, he thought as he came out of the bathroom and opened the bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass as he watched the snow falling outside Last day during a nap he dreamed that the snow reached all the way to the sixth floor where he lived and he saw his wife and two kids walking on top of it, stopping by his window to check on him It was a funny dream The wife and kids left during the summer that passed and never came back and he tried to make himself guilty for not missing them that much, but failed Now…

a songless bird

that would be the nicest
name she’d been
called

the others,
far more common,
being
that little wench
your bastard kid
the little rat
useless piece of shit that came outta you
and others

She liked the term
songless bird
It was a title worthy of her in
all the good and the
bad ways

The songless bird stands
locked in her room
and knocks and waves in
the window
for she has no voice to sing

She gives silent cries to the
neighbors and
the passersby when the noises
from the other side of
her door
get too violent

or when it smells
of smoke

Which happens
every now
and then