A second cup of coffee, manuscript unread
pages turned over, ink and pencil damn his
printed lies, not fiction, no editing can hide.

Landline within a hand’s reach, adjacent to
a still full cup, arms tight beside his frame
too weak to lift, conscience has its weight.

A ring, expected, yet he jolts as if in shock
he says ‘yes’ to silence, her breathing takes
the place of words, still living, how absurd.