And While

Others text, I write,
Here at bar’s end. Well.. Actually
I type. On a phone. Said I would stop.
But at least I’ve planted some page crop. Only starting. That clock’s
Waiting for me. The buttons,
That ridiculous finger scan.
Saturday. Yet? No. Leaning to
Newspaper stand, others’ stories,
Late night writings. Or types.
If I call in sick, make up a sellable
Story, I could write what I want.
Infighting.. Bloody brainstorming.
Scene change– while a writing, fiend’s
Feigned. Strained, too faulted 2 tame.