Ink
The doors are locked tight,
blinds dropped like shutters.
Candlelight.
I’m at the table, heart pounding,
breathless.
The clock ticks in the corner,
huge arachnid
slowly cracking its cocoon…
I’m waiting for words,
feverish for ink that will jet
like scalding water from a geyser.
I’m shaking.
I know I will have to mop up
before morning,
before the neighbors
spy the tell-tale rivulets
that trickle and spill
under the front door,
out into the street.