the rhythm of writing

at first as I tap the sound stutters, stands still
I back up, blankly stare, bite my fingers until
I think of the next word so perfect and pure,
but adding it now turns the rhyme to manure.

I stand up, take a shower and suddenly know,
since the beat of hot water makes everything flow,
so dripping and barefoot I race to the keys
and forget, then I groan as words flee and I freeze,

which reminds of a story I saw on the net,
a quick surf to find it before I forget . . .
then, six hours later I look up and see
I’m completely unfinished at quarter past three

so I rub at my eyes, brush my teeth, go to bed,
settle down for the night but NOW words fill my head,
I know if I sleep they’ll not last through the night,
so I shrug on my robe, boot my laptop, and write.

the tapping now flows like raindrops on the lane
or the marching of soldiers, or roar of a train,
and the word finally fits, and I see the dawn’s ghost
as I end the last line, save the file, and post.

line count: 20