Answer:
The unkempt room, dusty and disused
the exiguous perfume concealed in the books
the blinking of the alarm clock, jammed printer
the cell-phone, the incessant deep sleep
the dated OED flashing on the screen
the desk, cluttered with stacks of old prints.
The black cat lies between my cold feet
the long blank night, mute mind.
After the chirp of the cuckoo clock
an eerie silence fills the still room.
The cat stares at my mute face
her paws pressing the fallen ballpoint.
My wife comes in, looks at a piece,
the last line, the scribbled words and searches
in vain for a clue; she walks over a dossier
of unfinished work, a chapbook.
The clotted arteries bring no life to the brain.
Thoughtless and cold, it is held taut in a bony
box; totally vanished are the stored images
past memories, phrases and metaphors.
On the day I die my incomplete works
are my orphans; forlorn, they are lifeless,
never to be redacted or groomed, lacking
the author, they are squashed into the files.
The cat circles the room, rubs my cold feet,
pauses, stares at the chair, at drooping hands
wants some nibbles, waits to hear my response,
voice, mesmerized by my ashen face.
Step-by-step explanation: