For Nemo

“Nemo”

Seven minutes past his deadline.
Shackled to his desk.
His eyes skim
through the pool of words
floating before him.
the curser blinks in steady rhythm
as it awaits his command.

Clock ticks.
Seconds hang like lead over his head.
as a thousand things to-do cram him.

The body slaves in the daily grind,
and yet the mind hovers,
shuttles and flits
in spaces
in between the to and fro.

I picture him seized with the paradox of things ---
courted sleep and snapped from its bliss
assembled things only to disassemble it
did the walk, made the talk
and retraced his steps from where he has started.
still, it was not enough to woo his Muse.
Tried to be friends with his nerves, wrack his brain for the right words.
still, the screen immaculately stares back.

Forty-two minutes past his deadline.
He remains shackled to his desk.
Oblivious to the crunching of keypads,
bland conversations,
bleeping mobiles
and incessant ringing of phones.

His eyes skim
through the pool of words
floating before him.
Fingers in pace with the throbbing of the blinking line.

Clock ticks.
Seconds, minutes crawl past him.
And then he is numbed.
2:42 p.m. 06/15/06