The War Zone

I sit at my desk, an unremarkable posture Crooked back, crouched forward Hands, shaped like lobster claws Ready to pounce on the invisible prey However, my quarry is a thought, not yet set to reveal itself Scrambled thoughts of memories ferment Oozing out and dropping to the floor Trampled on A phrase or two lifts and permeates through my fingers A loud click of the keyboard, followed by another A symphony of automatic gunfire This is a war zone A killing field Then silence Coffee at nine Internet browsing for the rest of the morning