Seven in the evening:
fingers patter on
the sofa, feverishly
toying with a pen

Five past seven:
ink specks of
frustration freeze
in mid-dance

Ten past seven:
uneasy waves of
unwanted solitude
whisper fiercely
on each page

Fifteen past seven:
thoughts of the
pages by great
thinkers and
poets swirl
all about

Twenty past seven:
inconsistent
inspiration, and
unreliable realities
save only the
worthless

Twenty five past seven:
a sequin of satisfaction
is washed down
the drain

Seven thirty in the evening:
sweet surrender
just seduced you.