Saturday, January 3, 2015


    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.