Poem: Interruption

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


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
Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman's
poetry collection


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