Warm In My Lap Poem by Euginia Tan

The fruit of labour is warm in my lap.
I don't have to tell you
How good it feels,
Or exactly which centigrade I am at.

It is heating up my strained thighs and
Let me tell you it feels good.

The nights and nights of toil.
They bubble and boil and my mind
Sometimes I fear for it, it is of a different kind.
I become so much of an alien when I work.

I trap myself in my extraterrestrial space shuttle
And I huddle.
My space and source are timeless and broad
But there I am.
Hunched.
Under the light with electric wires sparking on and off

The combustible synapses of my tired brain,
Waiting to ignite.
When everything is ready to explode
A sudden thrill courses up my spine.

The ends of my hair are fried.
When daylight comes I crawl out from the twilight zone
Examine my craft.
It is grand to start your day with my laugh.

Wait till they lap it all up;
The aftermath of all my wretched maniacal tendencies
Warming up on my quiet lap.

Simmering. Ready to be served.
They are eyeing my work and I see drool.
One drop. Two drops.
A whole spool.