Ink Ink
By Hugo Williams

Another gulp of cold coffee
and still nothing going on creatively,
when her voice comes sweetly commanding
from next door: “Have you got any ink?”
I assume she means for the printer,
so I take it through to her.
“No, not that sort of ink, ink ink.”
I find her a bottle of Quink blue-black
and return to my cold coffee,
where nothing is still progressing nicely.
I’m waiting anxiously for her next communication
when she comes in smiling happily,
saying she’s found a hole in my jacket,
do I want it mending?

from Badlands (Mariscat Press: 2021) – Shortlisted for the Michael Marks Award