Now I know why he frantically pecked
the keys of his typewriter,
index finger by index finger;
why he typed alone
in a distant corner
on a deserted editorial floor
after the last edition
was put to bed;
notes on scraps of paper,
phone numbers on the backs
of business cards, files filled
with facts, photos,
scattered at his feet;
a side glance now and then,
a pause, a wince,
at street light glare
through the smudge
of crusted windows;
and why he pecked
faster and faster
for deadlines
he set for himself
to beat the morning sun