Ian Kilfoil Poet Free verse

Poet

Tobacco stained fingers
touch pen to paper
as a cigarette lingers
in the ashtray.
Arthritic hands
arduously lay down
each letter,
upon the page,
aching with each stroke.
A cup of coffee,
half empty,
sets amidst stains
of many other nights
and many other poems.
An exhausted mind,
slowly searches the soul
for that one last line,
for that one last word,
as the cigarette burns down,
and the hands give out,
sleep overcomes,
and those “one last’s” 
will have to wait
for a tomorrow
that never comes.

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