It usually arrives

after the second

layover.

When time becomes

irrelevent

and the eight dollar beers

begin to remind you

of the last time

you saw her,

or even the last time

you had sex.

You can't begin again

till your perception acknowledges

the absurdity of air travel,

the world's shortcomings.

The pen and ink,

they're everything,

once everything again means

nothing.

It's hard to sleep

when your phone's

dead,

when your pits reek

of booze.

But that's when it arrives,

when you can think

of nothing else,

when only regret can loosen

your bowels,

and the pen can move itself.