The 1145 From Penn

I can feel the trains running under me,
In forty five minutes I've to take mine,
The game now is to fill the hours,
Fill my ears with anything, anything
Save the weeping of my soul,
Which can find naught but reasons to cry.

A Nor'easter and the start of November

And my writing, as ever, lacks the essential quality that separates enthusiasm from talent.
Like that sentence, which I've borrowed from a book I'm reading.