hiatus

For a month this empty space
has tormented me,
pulsing like a tell-tale heart
beneath the floorboards.
I have conversed casually
in the evening with my bride,
passing calm comments
on fashionable news items.
I have enjoyed company
and made pleasant conversation
on unaccustomed subjects.
All was well so far as they could discern;
but, within, I was in agony.
The first several days, in daylight
I barely noted its feeble whimpering,
but that was a two-sided coin:
the month was unseasonably
dry and sunny, so mild
that I was able to lay out
pleasant diversions and itineraries;
but the nights magnified its protests
until I am living in its pounding drum:
I grind my ears under clenched fists:
there is no possibility I can ignore
the monster that has forged itself
of empty space and wasted potential.
It howls and pleads, screams
accusation and want.
I can avoid it no longer;
its blood will not cool by flowing;
I must scotch the snake, not kill it;
I must write, and thrust home:
SO.