A writer needs a place to write
With comfort, peace and quiet,
Or that is what I've heard, at least;
Some day I'd like to try it.
We all make do with what we have
And noise is my companion,
Surrounding and entrenching me
Like echoes in a canyon.
I tune it out, though it be traffic,
Radio or siren,
The kinds of things that likely
Never bothered Poe or Byron.
Not being in their league, of course,
(And barely well-regarded)
My thoughts still make it to the page
Though noise has me bombarded.
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