The Mourning Writer
 

By Patrick Best

I write alone in a room
With the door tightly locked.
A chair pushed under the knob,
The entrance securely blocked.
I wish I would have remembered
To bring back a hammer and nails
When I went to get a pen
For writing large and small details.
It'd be so nice to work
Without the sun up in the sky.
I hear the voices clearer
When only darkness fills the eye.
I get precious little time
To string together fractured thoughts.
And I float with hostile sailors
Who tie word ropes into knots.
It’s hard to leave my muse
When she finally wants to dance.
But an engine’s vulgar roar
Slipped in and broke her trance.