Poem: Interruption

The writer looking over his shoulder, unwilling to be stopped in mid-line.

Interruption Knowing my heartbeat, breath, digestion All that needed maintenance activity taken for granted, ignored, abused Working with a sense of urgency Candles flare, before they gutter out Why, this leaping flame of writing Some race I run against mortality? Think not, but wonder anyway Just a rush, comes and goes, has before will again, every sight a spooling thought Shirt pocket, grabbed for pen and paper scribbling against the tram’s unsteadiness Old things new, soft shapes grown sharp walking, thinking, reaching for the pocket Cigarettes and pen again, scribbling in flight Writing is a hunter’s gun, often without shells Shoot, pick up the body, pause, reload shoot again, quickly over the shoulder Swing through, times like these are rare enough Months ahead the game may all have fled I’ll take it while I can, a creature of opportunity If it’s a flare, then flare away, I like the light Death is inconvenient, at the most Won’t come at a civilized hour, never knocks Another interruption of my work

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.