A writer's life

He sits at an old chipped desk-
A many-splendered coloured desk
Meridian time
Yet he works tirelessly
Sweaty
Airless
The fan in the corner remains still
His mind overloaded works fast
His fingers are not
Pencil blunt he digs harder onto the paper
Indentation of yesterday's words
And those of the day before
He poises mid thought
Parched
After this page he'll get himself a glass of water
Maybe make himself a sandwich
He's sure there's a roast in the fridge
Perhaps even some Swiss cheese-
He continues to write
The page flows into another
And then into another
The witching hour-
He lights his desk lamp
Poises
Parched-
He'll stop at the next page
Surely