To compose a new poem every day
(as a way to clear away the cobwebs
cast in sleep, that seem to often obstruct
the door that swings freely between the worlds
of my reality and fantasy;
or at least to oil the rusty hinges)
may not appear much of a regimen,
but more an exercise in self-conceit.
But fitting at least a stray thought or two
into a confined fourteen line iamb
gives me a continuity and frame
through which to observe the remaining hours,
and sometimes makes the dull monotony
of less creative tasks just sweet enough.
15 JAN 2003
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