*Written for day 15 of the PAD challenge. Prompt: a "deadline" poem.
late again with the words
that would matter in black and white,
no matter, she can
wait to hear the presses
roll, the white cylinders
of paper unspooling noisily
on Forty-third Street, the
stop press for her own
personal headline as the
sun rises over Sardi's,
even Ray has gone home to
Brooklyn--and her
next deadline--breakfast
at Camelot with Pat the Priest
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