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.
Too long here, shuffling and hating.
Red-rimmed eyes up and down.
Trembling hand, reaching.
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.
He edits, pressing heavily as his anger rises.
His profession is dying.
He is dying; carved out.
That unwanted word.