Waterborne

The writers - each on their own island,
Marooned socially in a sea of others,
Writing from private lands,
Closed-off habitats,
In darkened rooms,
Ink-stained hands,
Cup after cup of coffee,
(And - later into the soul-seeking night - shot after shot of vodka)
Watching the sea from afar
And dreaming of it
And dwelling upon its backward waves.
Dreaming of the gold-rimmed ambitions
Of spirit after spirit after spirit,
And also wondering if the other writers -
Those far-off islands each so solitary -
Experience the same waves,
Or, for that matter,
The same sleepless nights,
The same shadowy undereyes and the same creaky limbs,
The same level of drunkeness...

For each are alone,
Drawing varied inspiration from the same surrounding sea.
And the most frequent writer's meetings
Could never tear us from the longevity of she.