In my heart there is a kind of fighting
That doesn’t allow me to sleep at night.
I wake before dawn with thoughts of writing,
And stare at a screen of Microsoft white.
My wife (who writes at least as well as me),
Lies in light slumber, after deep sleep.
She hasn’t time to sigh ponderously;
She works for us both now; pays for our keep.
I bring her tea and toast; breakfast in bed,
Go back downstairs, sit staring at the screen
And try to convert the thoughts in my head
Into saleable points, not before seen.
But, alas, I’m bereft of ideas;
With thoughts of money, my muse disappears.