Screwdriving in the bottom of the head

Or: Recalibrating in the light of day

Sour-faced, a stuttering writer who wrote
with his erection for company and muse slowly
came to, starting and startled. A dream or two
pinched him, stole away the maudlin sprites
that dove into his swinging head long ago,
and old Lady Day told him in her alcoholic
croon the child with his own is blessed,
though the child with many others is moreso.
Two days he mouths to himself his company to go.

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~ by Jeremy on June 2, 2012.

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