At a Desk Over a Light In a Lonley Room

Morning light touches down in spots on the ground.
I'm on the porch,
and don't hold it against me,
but I'm drinking a bloody mary with vodka,
and smoking a cigarette, this AM.
The short stories of John Updike lie unopened on the ledge.
Its his early stories, between '53 and '75,
when he wrote by old typewriter
and submitted to The New Yorker.
The radio plays sports talk,
though I wish I could say Wagner, NPR, the like.
These days, I'm struggling to write, and submit stories of my own.

Hemingway never drank when he wrote, when in the process.
But he had Paris, the war, big game hunting.



Writing is a funny thing.
It's commiting oneself to a blank page
at a desk over a light in a lonley room.