Each morning, early, I go in to fish,
not out, beside a pond or nearby lake,
but into my subconscious mind and wish
for rhymes and subject matter I can make
into a poem that finally will seem
as cogent and coherent as if made
to order from some pre-existing theme
that, by the end, is artfully displayed.
The truth, however, is quite otherwise,
since I have no foreknowing where my lines
will go, and one by one I must devise
my route within these rigorous confines.
When things go just as well as I might wish,
I can be happy that I’ve caught my fish.