I hate when you've just gotten into bed, just found that sweet three-cornered perfectly orchestrated merge of heaven when the sheets warm to body temperature, the thump-thump thhhhhhhump-thump of reggae from the fuck-wad law students below suddenly ceases, and your body finally says goodbye to today's slice of 24 and starts to fuzz out, eyelids first.
And then the poem comes.
One of those poems with a concept so basic, you can't believe you'd never thought of it before. A subject so day-to-day but so significant that you instantly think of two full phrases and an opening line. The kind of poem so frickingly, brilliantly simple, that you can assure yourself with all confidence that there is no need to get out of bed; no need to disrupt the lull of tucked in warmth, no need to step out onto the chilly floor to get a pen and the journal, no need to shake sleep. No, this one's a keeper. And you think of the last poem that came to you like this and how nice it was that you woke yourself up and wrote and wrote in the warm summer early morning, and how good it was, the final poem. But you also think, how nice, but how unnecessary, because this poem is different: it's so simple, so right, you'll never forget it.
For the life of me, I can't remember last night's poem. A good poet is neither lazy, nor easily chilled.
