A space for writing, with a solid desk and chair
Circled, cornered by the ever-winking lights
Literary progress drifts and fades on air
The music of the spheres is drowned by TV fights
The grunts of boxers, punditry, united lovers
And static that the commerce of the age defines
A refuge on the eastern plains where poets, once as brothers
Hitched, hand-holding, inward to the mountain spines
And cast their visions out to where the oceans end
Engulfed by gadgetry, in solitude and screaming
While keeping hope, weighed down by what we spend
We cling to bright materials saved up for dreaming.
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