I Don't get out of Bed

I don't get out of bed anymore to catch a rhyme, line or stanza, to sit drinking reheated coffee at the pendulous hour of 3 AM while children sleep and the refrigerator sings white lullabies. Oh, they still come, the visions, epiphanies, simple scenes that mean so much, and it's only a matter of hearing them correctly, their music, and rising to find words, knowing polish will come in the morning or next week, next year, that it's the idea that must be grasped and held. But, no, I lie there and fall asleep, letting them drift into dreams that vanish upon waking. I think it was Updike who said poetry was a young man's game, maybe someone else. I could look it up, but I'll let that go, too--it doesn't matter--but you, hey, get your ass out of bed and write that shit down.