What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (10)

10

Under a small desk lamp sits the writer,
in only his boxers and shirt, fidgeting through the mess on his desk,
he twitches, the night is young, his alarm clock blares from the other room,
it flashes 3:30 over and over, blinking red eyes in the dark.

His hand smashing his face, yanking his hair to the heavens,
he jabs at the keyboard, he doesn't just type,
he grinds his teeth, he jabs and jabs, his neck aches and he winces;
his hand moves down to his neck to nurse the sore,
but his other hand never refrains, jabbing at the keys, backspace, backspace,
jab, jab, over and over, the cursor blinks back at him from the shining screen,
the only light in the dark room.