The Impatient Poem

A poem with an attitude Turned up at half-past-three, It woke me up and said, 'Hey, dude, It's time for poetry! ' I wrote nine poems yesterday, Those guys give me no rest... I slithered out of bed O.K. And stayed there, unimpressed... Now almost dozing, lay there still, How long, I know not when, Then crawled across the carpet till I found paper and pen... The poem prodded, like they do, Impatient like they are, All ready with its point of view To broadcast near and far... So there I was, with one eye closed, The first line on the page, My body slumped and strangely posed At this most awkward stage... The first verse came, eight, six, eight, six, The syllables in form, While I lay there, as cold as bricks, Fatigued, no longer warm... But onward, ever onward, I, Began the second verse, To finish this before I die, If things should get much worse... The third verse started very well, I smiled at what it meant And even giggled for a spell, Like it was Heaven-sent... The final verse, at last, at last, The poem shook my hand, 'Well done, my friend, that was a blast! I knew you'd understand! ' With that, the poem paused in prayer, 'I couldn't ask for more! ' 'That's great! ' I said, eyes closed, right there, Then slept upon the floor! Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.