What he was, absolutely
Astutely aware that his particular chair had been pulled
Leaving him to forever mull it over
It just seemed to be one goddamn thing atop another with him
Copious cigarettes aside a rather careless inability to stay focused, stay sober
Some mothers do have ’em
Sitting forever forlorn, pen in hand, always at the ready
His editor – something of a temporary protector – assuring her wordsmith that all would be fine so long as he managed to remain oh so steady
Shine above
That all would undoubtedly turn out grand in the end
It will of course all depend upon his literary elation, his outright, downright determination
Perfect penmanship
Strip away all of that painstaking bitterness, feelings of being left utterly ill-equipped
And steer that ship on home
Time to cause a storm in a tea cup, dear poet
Write how you might like come the stroke of midnight

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