Cigarette in hand
she blows ash
off the page, sends
blue/grey smoke signals.

Her concertinaed frown
sets off lines
on her forehead
waves of thought crash
on the shore of her mind.

Like conception
few ideas seep through,
the flagella
of determined, pushy thought
comes right in.

She smiles, “That’s it! ”
looking like wise beauty
and I gotta get some.

The lines leave her face
and curl her hair
with kinetic energy
then off to sculpt Rodin’s Thinker
in another writer.

Thinking is thirsty work,
that’s why
she writes at the bar,
glass of red nearby,
she thinks_
of everything.

Pete Dowe

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writer-the/