On Arrival in the Seomra*
Six months paperwork lies piled on the desk,
eight dry fountain pens need to be refilled,
one computer switches on, lights up, waits,
three notebooks spread themselves on the table,
six books of poetry wait to be read.
The writer scribbles, scratches, more in hope
than delivery. Five times in the hour
he wonders when coffee will be ready,
looks dejectedly at the near-empty page,
hauls himself up, lumbers towards the kitchen.