"The writer" by Bobby Torpey

On a cold, Grey winter's day,
In the middle of a large American city,
In the living room of a large house,
A man sits and waits.
His mind searching for inspiration.
He is a writer, by aspiration, if not achievement.

In his bedroom, pale blue walls and drab old furniture
Assault the eyes.
And a wooden floor streaked with age.
Unpacked boxes line the corner;
Remnants from the last move.

An old Smith Corona typewriter sits proudly on the desk,
right next to the door;
While it's proprietor tries to unblock himself.

"Talk to me about the self" he asks, to o God in particular.
"Talk to me about being and becoming,
"Change and growth.
"And I shall listen with rapt attention...."