Seat supports my body as I bend over
the desk to write. The works of John Donne,
Willy Shakespeare, Robert Frost splayed
out in front of me, to read, to study,
 to answer questions about.
The labor is intense; my hand cramps
and complains when I write too much,
although my meager work here won't amount to theirs.
Theirs infinitely transpires around the whole world,
hearing Hemingway in voices, sounding out
Poe's morbid psyche. In a way, my art,
contemporary and modern, cannot resemble theirs:
I do not write in constricting sonnets, I do not engage
in a life where novels and poetry and plays served as
primary entertainment for those laymans of the time,
though such a smaller life would intrigue and serve me well.
No, their lives are separate from mine, by centuries,
by mindset, by culture and vocabulary,
yet let read, let me consume, and we shall all
become one: together.