"I need to focus now on Kierkegaard,"
in vain I say 'fore Poetry's narrowed eyes.
"Oh no," she says, "Although you ill regard
submission to my ruthless enterprise,
The path from kitchen table to your bed
will open only once I've had my way.
You must release what I've put in your head.
Until you do, your sleep I'll hold at bay."
And so I sit and think and feel and write
and hope someday she'll let me say goodnight.
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