He sits at the old desk

The blighted strife of words stuck

In between then and now

An empty ash tray kept for old time’s sake

A typewriter with a half- eaten sheet of paper wedged

The re-arranged desk tidied re-arranged again for the seventeenth time

An empty pad and pen lay supine to one side

A cough that still nags

The racking hack of many years of abuse

The reminder of his lung’s dysfunction

Even after the cessation of nicotine

He rests his head on elbow pads

He flicks the desk light on and off intermittently

A semaphore signal to anyone who might be watching

That he is thirsty for bourbon for cigarettes

For words

But there is nothing no oasis of recompense

No back up plan or 7th cavalry to come over the hill

He wills the phone to ring

Another voice to spring him into life

Away from the lassitude of this

Blank and heedless life

The clock ticks its own rhythmic pattern

Of discontent

As he stands and sighs

Looking out over a New York sky

Wondering wanting waiting willing

But all he sees are clouds

The frost-bitten haze of another day of

Uncounted words lurking in the long grass

Where he must mow scythe reap hack and contemplate

The wallpaper bookcase of hundreds of books

That bite back at him offering no hint of reprieve

He slumps and writes a note

He wants to say goodbye forever

But the words will not cease

Line after line that fills the page one upon another

The words that flow, there is no end in sight

He does not stop until the early hours

Until at last he can write no more

Satisfied he sees the cloud has moved

The moon is full and the sky is bright

He fills his face with a smile

A smile of desperate relief