you say insistently,
look, this too shall pass,
your cups of tea and remaining dregs,
will usher in tomorrow,
when all will be read and done -
Shelley will writhe no more in disemboweling pain,
Byron will return to trollops and Wilde pretty boys,
Woolf will scour twenty scores more to write another Orlando.
In the meantime,
will I sit here motionless, a lying duck in my
room, where geckos steal past walls
warning of another month of ennui?