He sips his coffee, writes a line, remembers the struggle, apprehends why. He’s read to dull ears, seen eyes turn away, from his poems about nothing; even he has misgiving. Ten years since an editor’s thank-you note; still he sips and still writes, skipping slick certitudes, untangling knots. He writes what he knows, and he knows a lot, but they don’t know, and they don’t care. He lifts his pen leans back and smiles— an insider’s trust: The right eyes will see. He scans the walls for someone who might, bends forward again— maybe tonight.