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,