THE POET’S STUDY
The poet’s study held a mound of books
Heaped up on tables and wedged into nooks,
Some still on shelves, more orderly deployed,
Some on the floor and harder to avoid.
Much to the anguish of his dismayed wife,
This hubbub proved a source of constant strife
Because the only way to the back door
Passed through the middle of this sad eye-sore.
“It’s all a work-in-progress,” said the poet,
“And what I need, the Muse more easily shows it
Amongst this only-seeming disarray,
For this puts serendipity in play.”
The poet’s wife, unmoved by his defense
The poet’s wife conceded this made sense.