Writer

Purple garret in the dawn,

Cherry pits and apple cores,

The smell of dying smoke,

Sound of closing doors.

Typewriter, a wounded beast;

Blood ribbon-black and paper-gray.

Against the walls the tapping

Greets the beginning day,

And the closing doors.

Purple garret in the morn,

Birds huddle for some heat.

Clouds coughing, raining dust

And traffic crawls the street.

Sliding carriage, a pecking cry,

Twisted carbon on the floor,

And listening hard and lean

To the closing door,

And the closing doors.

Purple garret in the day,

Paragraph, sentence, words.

The windows stretch and yawn

With a creaking in their boards.

The mail slot yells a curse.

The Postman’s footsteps fade.

The puddles of black and white

On the floor are laid

Behind the closing doors.

Purple garret in the eve,

Dying in pain from the cold.

Almost insane, tearing glue, finding

The same mocking scold.

Still creation ticks,

The keys are pounding hard,

While in the mantle dust

Sits a ghostly bard

Hearing closing doors.