9:43 p.m.

Even Crosby, Stills
and Nash fail to release
the lazy suction pull-
ing her into listless boredom.
Smoothing a stubborn crease

in her shirt, she drains a final
cup of coffee and reaches
for the telephone; no
answer.  She thinks, waits,
examines her nails.  Each is

reflecting her ragged mood:
bitten, broken, yearning
to be filed.  She wonders, should
she go? Then switches on
the television, turning

channels, and off again.
Her pen begins to write
and like before, the inane
monotone appears, not
giving the shallow night

another purpose but sitting,
waiting, impatiently waiting
for words to come, fighting
the sour block in her brain,
vainly and restlessly waiting.

Last Updated on October 16, 2024 by Anne