A Writer's Companion

You are not a hobby or an aperitif,
a laundry basket I can forget,
or a man I wish was mine.

You are the comfort in the night
a right flight plan, the only one I have
a ticket to come by.

The times I begin to doze you'll nudge me
to a desk, floor, perspectives my weak mind
won't do without, or ask to sleep some more.

Judgement and prescriptions end in
facts and budding truths of lyric
and almost lyrical lines
pulled fresh from you garden.

A ruby fruit for filled pancakes,
on the first cold days of autumn.

You are the conjecture,
impetus for getting away
from my warm covers and lovers
this and every morning.

Where are we going at this hour?