For a song
Daniel woke and his office was calm.
Right where he left it was his ink
Eraser and copy of the contract warm
Against his face-down palm. Its pink,
Malleable surface just a reach away.
Song publishing contracts were his strength.
In a day he could prepare a few, four, say.
Not today though, for he had just dozed at length:
A good three hours dreaming he was on some
Desert island. It was so vivid. He still
Recoiled at the thought of the dead crab. Plumb
Enormous and brown it was. The thrill
And stench of it lingered. He perused the contract for faults.
Moped on in 3/4 time over this song about a horseshoe crab's waltz.
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