eyes barely open as minutes
pass for seconds on a tiny
corner table where I scribe my poems
subdued lighting and neutered
calls from over-caffeineated
teenaged chefs surround me
recycled-paper brown napkins
filled with intelligible-only-to-me
scratchings rest under my tired hand
fifteen second-minutes later I return
to watch hour after tedious hour
slither slowly from the clock
the big hand finally points toward
salvation and I take my coat and gloves
and poems home to read what my soul has spilled
a smile makes a rare appearance as
the tenuous words on the napkin take form and
bring meaning and relief to my tired heart