Even Today

at his desk
in his mind
writing,
writing
nothing comes
(even this)
stare at his hands
“Produce, gods be damned,
I command you to
produce!”

night air
across the floor
reaches his feet
stare at his toes
“Hells, how long
have I left them thus:
unclipped?”
in solitary frustrations
we’ve let the
Gremlin
climb the walls

puts his suit on
when he goes
outside
but only to be seen
as a man
taking garbage
to the street
or, to check the mail
so others see
he lives
and nothing comes
not even this.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

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