Writer's Cramp

We used to edit each other's screenplays
On Park Avenue beneath satin sheets,
Writing sitcoms of slapstick comedies
While disquietude hatched like a maggot
Such as when Saul who oversaw stoning
Turned from Stephen intending to silence
The incessant buzz he heard in his ear.

It came to pass in the masked tragedies
Of sticks and stones from our daily affairs
We no longer called each other dearest;
Hope against hope, I sought my Damascus
But all I wrote was a roadhouse poem

In which my lines finally broke
Down whose last word at least was done.