This Is How the Story Really Goes

He sits at his lightweight desk,
Its edge pushed against his chest,
Like a child in a high-chair.

Past the window, autumn air
Stirs its fragile waves through chimes.
He writes down another line

In his heroic epic
On the teratogenic
Life of imagination.

He never shifts position.
He stares. He writes. Stares. Stares. Writes.
This goes until it’s night,

Day after day, month on month,
Year on year, with breaks for lunch.