A Portrait of the Artist as a Paint by Number

Eighty-two pages,

each one a piece of me.

Two days 'til deadline, six poems to write.

The constant clicking of fifty-four keys,

a balm for my fraying nerves.

Eight drafts and still unsastisfied,

searching for eureka.

One last rewrite.

Thirteen months since conception,

seven ounces on delivery.

Ten dollars, the price on the cover.

I know the real worth.