He’s typing words on a page, and letters fly with glorious rage, keyboard to screen--his muse surely hitting the high notes, as fingers perform a percussion of clattering dreams.
And coffee’s bitter brew steeps sensuously, its scented veil trailing across his eyes.
When he looks at the screen the notes of the muse fall flat. Did he mean to write that? Family life intervenes on his story’s stage, with kids demanding, “Daddy, play with me.”
The page is gray, the keyboard stone, and finger-ends are wearied skin and bone.
Save chapter; start another? No. Author and muse together groan.