I think my sometimes muddled memory
Is the price I have to pay for poetry
I write by rummaging in my mind’s hoard,
Deranging all to find the aptest word.
Each rhyming sound my memory supplies
Should seem inevitable yet still surprise.
Such seeming ease means I must wrack my brain,
Which suffers afterwards from undue strain,
Refusing to serve up some needed fact
No matter how importunately wracked.
The only help is to relax and wait
Until the strain and agony abate.
Though writing poems may my brain abuse,
That is a sacrifice I’ll yield my Muse.