I am hooked to the pen, to the ladle,
To the pencil whose shades are dim,
I’d rather do resting later
I work plunged in someone’s dream.
I’d rather do random searches.
My telephone book is a nest
Hidden among the birches
Ignoring me less and less.
I sit at an awkward table,
Built in the ancient den.
And holding the ink-craving ladle
I cook with my starving pen.