Struggling for W.O.R.D.S

I'm slugging down a cappuccino; there's a deep tiredness right at the far dark back of my eye sockets; when I close my eyes - to rest them - they beg and scratch at me not to open them; not ever again please
I'm exhausted and battered
But good exhausted and good battered
A large woman hunched and round-shouldered - to the bursting - into a turquoise jersey stares at the magazine rack and clutches her new born to her bosom; I'm envious of her distilled and nature-instinctive focus
It's raining raining raining outside
I've been struggling for words
I'm working on a (very) short story about a crab; her name's Sally Lightfoot
I have to finish it by tomorrow
Feels like I've lost focus right here, that this has become the blog of my discontent
I smile wryly
To myself
And catch myself listening to the irritatingly but unusually high pitched squeak of an exceptionally short waitress reading a loaned-from-the-bookshop magazine: recycling I think might be the term