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The suns dodging clouds

Turning the room from day to night over

And over again.

Muffled, heavy speaking in the other room

Traveling through walls, charts, doors and carpeting

And finds me at the desk, facing out but

Probably not East.

Cigars and ticket stubs at arms reach,

And I am silent, except for the gentle drumming of my fingers

On the keys.

Once every ten minutes or so, the fingers synchronize

With the pounding in my chest

And the rhythm is intoxicating

Driving both to a more swift pace,

Recklessly plowing off gravel roads through

Fields of wild grass confiscating county land.

The nothingness of the surroundings whiz

By struggling to compose itself in the temporary presence of

Such unadulterated passion

Faster fingers, burning heart

And the motion becomes circular,

Angling back at itself ever so slightly

To catch a fractional glimpse of

Its own splendor.

Patterns left in the wake

Only for the eyes of the patient or

The stagnant-