Hurry To The Table

There is little left to feast upon.

Choice platters are all picked but clean.

You came too late to dinner’s table

And few desserts remain.

No hunger stirred your eagerness.

No urgency that drove your need.

Others seated picked at scraps,

Looked up with curious gaze.

What thing was this delayed your presence,

This tardiness to diner’s bell?

You heard the call as did the others,

Yet failed to respond.

Faint little did the diners know

That in your room and hard at work

You struggled with a stubborn line

To complete your piece.

Lines danced like tantalizing sirens

Twixt Scilla’s and Charybdis’ cries.

You, tied to mast, could not answer

Despite their urgent pleas.

And so you laid aside your pen

Descended down the cascade stairway,

Made appearance at the table

And took your ‘customed place.

Ignoring stares and muttered queries

You gathered scraps as best you could

Drank wine and coffee, no creme, no sugar.

Then off to works unfinished.

Once again you heard them calling

Lines not fit nor suiting purpose.

Close but not exactly right

Till words dropped into place.

Words your own and not from others

Words to make the thought complete.

Put finish to the sweat of labour

Put down the pen replete.

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