There’s little profit for idle writers,
By still’d in boxes amongst much barren tabs,
Match’d with wage strife, yet getting not the dole
Meted through unequal laws of preoccupied politicians,
Who hoard, and sleep, and debate, and know not us…
Such as we cannot rest from the will to think
plots and words and resumes: Dire times we’ve endured
Recently, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
Who endure us, and individually, and when
Under scudding drifts in the rainy city
We apply, we interview and become ashamed.
How dull it is to be paused, to be up-ended,
To rust unemployed, not to shine in use.
We could yet again be that strength that saw the likes of many during permanent hours
Begin before dawn, but that which we are, we are; Seekers of fair recompense for written words.