Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high,
brain bubbles like a percolator on speed,
firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake,
inciting me to violent turns of phrases,
penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched.
They say to hide one’s light under the bushel is a sin,
and this must be my punishment.
No rest for the wicked.