I can’t remember how to write a poem.
Rehearsing meter roughly I begin
to chant iambic as I walk from home,
enjoying cashmere warm against my chin,
appreciating wool around my neck,
in love with fluffy gray upon my ears.
My lyric spirit hibernates. I check
it while I muffle me from winter’s spears.

I’m not impassioned. I don’t feel abused.
I’m simply loving comfort and my mind.
I trust a little leave will be excused
from poetry; today’s a different kind
of prayer – a thanks for one more day of me
inhabiting this personality.