It is Thursday. The bottle is empty. My glass
nurses only a rusty smell of brown ale.
I sit alone, hands wringing, thinking there must
be some pool in this still parched mind of mine.
Please, inspiration. My empty page longs for print,
like a kingsize bed yearns for company. Speaking of –
– the neighbours upstairs are back. Going at it.
The headboard bangs the wall, the bed legs chafe
the carpet, to the repeated cry of drunk success.
His dull moan to her shrill yes.
Like a beggar beneath a water pump,
I raise my glass to catch whatever lend
could end this long drought. I feel it, seeping
through the mattress, passing between
the floorboards, sinking through the foam insulation,
working down the wire into the lightbulb, the lightbulb
that burns above my head. A bright idea for the dim.
Down it goes through my arm. To my hand. My pen. This poem.
Nesbit and Gibley 