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.

Yet.

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

He writes in his head.

Sometimes.

When he can be bothered – and the

words pour through; clipped sentences.

Precise.

Neat.

Ordered.

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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