The Writer

Sorry, the words went, we cant offer you a contract
The cheque is in the mail, said another
I will send the contract shortly, was a thirds refrain
Not now, maybe next year, decade or century

Writers, unite
Nothing to lose,
but your editors and creditors

So once again,
going back to the broken worn laptop,
hammering away keys, to ham away the stoic egoistic grief

You are in the wrong country, color, class,
Just when you thought you got the hang of the game,
The game flipped, from rugby to basketball,
but not quite cricket.

You have been hanging out with the rich kids again,
with the richness of your thoughts to compensate,
for the inadequacy of your pocket.

Time to come back,
Dear writer,
It is time to write.