I do not have the time to write a tome

I do not have the time to write a tome I’ve just too much to do right here at home I dread the thing that calls with vapid tone That distant idle chirping of my phone And yet I must abide and scan the screen Perhaps it’s something I have never seen Or worse an urgent message from a teen Saying the Irish whiskey turned him green And yet my fingers love the keyboard dance My mind in fevered harness longs to prance Upon the snow cap whiteness take a chance Somehow the empty pages to enhance Yet I am stuck at home a wingless drone Resembling the forests aging crone Subject to a curse turned youth to stone A voice of cryptic curses to intone Thus do ancient fingers keyboard dance The challenge always there to take a chance Put on your dancing shoes and boldly prance To hell with those who say “you’re old…you can’t”