There was a poem in my head
that dragged me from bed
and asked a few little things of me.
“Leave off the lights”
“Hold on to last night”
“Put me down here while you start the tea.”
So it sprawled on the table
while I lived in a fable
where my morning was mine at last.
But before the hot water,
“Good morning, Father!”
the kids ate my poem for breakfast.