The Novelist

I begin to suspect the novelist,

With his wide, broad brow and clenching fist,

For he pulls no punches, word-fully,

And he lives his life absurd-fully.

We are all his manna, all his meat,

As he casts his eyes about, discreet,

And observes our ways and records our manner,

Noting every gulp and stammer.

He wakes like a bird, for he loves routine,

A walk, a shave, a cup, a screen,

And his fingers fumble at first, then fly,

As the images go whizzing by.

At a thousand words, he stops and sighs.

Does their order, choice, epitomize

A vision, rarefied and new?

Self-satisfied, he craves a brew.

So he goes for a beer and hones his craft,

And mixes with peers and mere riffraff,

And he nurses, alone, his salt and hops,

Like an addict shoots, or a shopper shops,

For the air just hums in this dank, dark lair–

A word, a phrase, a name, an air–

And he jots it all down with a tiny smile,

One that no one sees. For he has compiled,

Most unnervingly, all the hopes and dreams,

We’d allowed to fester, sight unseen,

And appointed himself our publicist.

I begin to suspect the novelist.

For other poems about writing, read The Passive Void and The Weight of Words.