Poetry

Summer Bummer, 27 (179.)

Last minute, again
(AGAIN),
a pro procrastinator right here,
jamming fingers into keys
like a hyped-up piano player
(though he pauses too much to make any lasting melody)
and frowning at himself,
Beethoven in the dark of night,
agog at the silent panel of judges
sitting in a circle above and around his head,
peering down and scowling,
visages darker than the shadows in his nightmares,
type away, play away, write away,
but next time do it RIGHT AWAY,
for midnight comes too soon
and the hours stretch long
to morning,
when the waiting star
falls at last.

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