musing: the graveyard shift

for Sarah
as I enter a writers’ graveyard shift
sheltered by a desk lamp

a lover is nesting within the covers
breathing softly

paper and pen on the window ledge
third floor

overlooking the river,
dark wet stretching leather

red buoys flicker
on/off

signal thoughts to the writer
on graveyard shift

looking for inspiration
in poorly lit boats shuttling past

the crew all strangers to me
as I am almost a stranger to the person in my bed

promises made as solid as the murkiness before us
where sharks hide amongst it all
vicious, devouring, still-life anecdotes
the ideal machine of consequence

and still, still
with all this darkness
no inspiration

a day of sweet caressing,
the best of my thoughts

whispers in the linen
across her body

into her eyes
chases away the dark creations

filled with something that felt like love a long, long time ago
hands left shaking

unable to paint,
a dark portrait of self