father of words

resigned to the fact,
he sat back and his
fingers, his sexy, nim-
ble fingers typed at am-
azing speeds and he de-
scribed the words, how the
novel would be his child, how
he felt like he was giving birth and
all around him the real world reeled
back and forth like a ship at sea in a
storm or maybe a humvee hitting
bumps in some foreign, faraway
land. and they laughed at him -
maybe not out loud (most of
the time anyway), but he
knew in the deepest,
truest part of his
mind that it
was true -
his mission
on earth to write
a few words here
and there and do a
few good deeds here
and there.

he would've made
a good father, of
that he was sure.
or perhaps, even
better, a dad ...

but he didn't
know what it
was like - that
parent / child
bond first
hand and
he saw so
many with
the gift of
parenthood
just waste it
selfishly - all
around him,
everywhere
he looked.

the book,
though, the
novel some
thought he
had for-
gotten.
it wasn't
rotten,
just a-
ging, a
ring of hope
around the moon,
echoing saturn's rings
worth so much more than
anything found on earth -
and the black void of
space is comforting
but you have to give
birth to a book am-
ongst the popu-
lation, the pe-
ople. open-
ing. the
words
falling
out in
a stream
and a tenous
piece of the author,
of the writer, still attach-
ed to the book. edited
then, wiped up and
given a spank on
the spine.

no, of
course
it's not the
same. that
feeling, though,
the one he knew,
it went into the book.