Wordwright Poem by Stan Petrovich

I crouch at this dusty keyboard,
And the light of early dawn slants
At depressing angles
Throughout the room. A chair,
Worn from duty, Sighs at me; I sigh back. There is no such thing.
It is but a pomegranite in my head:
So many cubicles, juicy with thought,
Wanting to get out. But one cannot bite into it, as such,
Without bluntly making a mess,
A dribble of noise,
A concatenation of words,
Either making some kind of symbiotic sense,
Or falling flat on the pallet of palaver,
A deal of nonsense.