While Sharon visits Ronnie. I can live it up in style.
And concentrate on poetry, that hasn't happened for a while.
The computer room's quite messy, strewn papers all around.
As I conjure up the magic words, buried here, on hallowed ground.
I've no wood to build a fire, and the room has grown quite cold.
And what's that, on my sandwich? My God...It looks like mould.
The cats are scratching at the door. When's the last time they've been fed?
If Sharon sees her starving beasts, then, I might as well be dead.
A poet's world's a jumble of frustration, sweat, and pain.
As they coax the blessed/cursed pen, and, sometime. all in vain.
And just when they've abandoned hope, and sunk into despair.
The magic words, come floating in, like that!...As if on air.
I can sit, and write and find no rhyme, and then, try and try again.
But to get it right, I need a ride on the Struggling Poet's train.
If I tried explaining this...to people who don't write.
I'd be wasting time, and maybe rhyme, though, I could prattle half the night.
The Poet's Train's a state of mind attained by very few.
It rushes in to Poet's Square, with words and rhyme anew.
Its whistle's not a mournful sound, no, not to those who wait.
To pick and plunder poetry, that it carries in its freight.
And so, as I await the train, and the words I hope to find
I sit here like an imbecile, a vacuum for a mind.
But wait, what’s that I hear, the train is pulling in.
And yes! It brought me what I need, so I can write again.
At last I have the words I sought, and I really must confess
I wept for joy to find them there, on the Poetry Express.
And now I must clean up this house, and put my pen away.
My poem is done,
The Train is gone.
And, the wife comes home today...
