The Sun God Is a Ham

Hands curved, fingers poised at the keyboard,
like a pianist about to concertize, I am ready to write.
Waiting the conductor's cue,
I hold in readiness position - a hovering hawk.
Which key will be struck first?
What little click will loft the fine sentences the world has never seen? Sentences that validate the promise of a writer? Patience - a sign will appear. I stare at the screen it's still an unblemished white. I accept the roll I must play -
blank-screen spoiler, virginal defiler. I stretch out fingers,
flex, yawn, rub palms together, wait for the surge,
the catalytic urge that is soon to come.