The Weary Editor

He is crouched and tired,

pencil roaming over words:

too many here, a comma missing.

He carves them out – a cancer

to his practised eye, and his gut knots

as he sees – and not for the first time,

prolixity; lazy minds.

Lazy bastards.

Too long here, shuffling and hating.

Red-rimmed eyes up and down.

Trembling hand, reaching.

No drink.


He is better than this, but it is too late.

He writes in his head.


When he can be bothered – and the

words pour through; clipped sentences.




But others write.

Or try.

He edits, pressing heavily as his anger rises.

His profession is dying.

He is dying; carved out.

That unwanted word.

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