a writer on a stormy night

Photo by Dimitris Stefanis, photo courtesy Pxleyes

it is the dead of night
and sleep won’t seep
through these superglued veins
dinner on tables
fixed like a memorial to the ten thirty date
there was no call
no missed message no email
only thunder and rain
a missing muse
cold meal and empty page
candle wax dripping and beer turned into water
no miracle here but time
the passage of which makes patches of dust and fungus
on white paper water food
and lines on a stood-up writer’s face
surely there is a better way than waiting
for wayward muses to turn kind
surely there must be something to learn
about making them stay