The scratching of pencil on paper silences the world around him.
Brewing vanilla tea draws the writer out of focus.
The porcelain mug fits his hand like a hand grenade.
He is ready to make war with his words.
Out the window, the dimming of the day promises
to unveil the sparkling constellations soon.
The sound of the whooping cough of Ms. Jones
rattles through the building while
the horrid smell of garbage burns like wildfire into his room.
The rotting wood of the makeshift desk threatens
to snap with the lightest touch.
Out the window, a man becomes
a fountain of red and drowns the street as
its creator flies down the street.
The writer returns to his craft;
the pencil tip is as dull as
everything.
He flings the pencil to the floor like a javelin in rage.
He cannot write while
his neighbor succumbs to Death’s grip
and the surrounding chaos threatens to destroy him.
Ms. Jones’s coughing stops and turns to laughter.
The smell of garbage disappears as it is removed from the hall.
Repairmen arrive and fix the leaking fountain of blood.

But the repairmen do not make the trip to his apartment
nor do they fix his pencil, his desk, his life.
The writer cannot return to his work.
Soon the garbage, the coughing, and the fighting will return.
And the pencil will still be dull and the desk will still be rotting.