A line arrives

This afternoon -
a pen’s gem
mined from withdrawn
conversations,
phrases held back
because some sentences
are best kept buffed
beneath finger and thumb,
your own uncut stones
of whatever colour
adds to a mood.

There’s no certainty here,
only jig-saw corners
under Scrabble pieces,
and when the pile
is pushed aside,
just personal introspection
which gnaws word ends
into paper leg chains;
yellow garter stanzas
with a hope to arouse
like a twelfth night play.

Contentment is now,
this poem lifted
off the uncollaborative floor
to be written complete
with a tapped-out ending;
the keyboard being so creative,
sneaks in with Typo The Greek,
who dances idiotically
on the desktop, thinking himself
worth the attention
of another spell check.