They call to me; early, impatient,–and creaking.
Looking down at the keys
and squinting through a cracked mirror of blur,
raising hands which are balloons of lead,
to push into life words that wait in the queue
of the addled Tilt-A-Whirl in my smeary mind.
I find that the “T” key and the Space Bar will have nothing of it.
They and their assembled brothers
sail through the kinescope of the darkroom I call home;
and are dispersed as the shells of an egg long gone rotten….
They lay in the corner,
like my emotions;
smelling of cheap scotch and
burnt out incense.
The words will have to wait.
They were dead already anyway.