Forty-Five Minutes or Less

In forty-five minutes or less –

I must fashion this poem a dress –
(unless it won’t get off my lap
until I’ve be-jocked it with strap) –

there’s something, I’m sure, to be said
for musing for hours instead
of dropping, like change from a purse,
perambulatory light verse –

but frankly I don’t have the time
for any but this arrant rhyme –
must write something metered, or bust –
before I run out of the trust

I’ve put in my long enterprise
of rising before each sunrise
to say something, rapidly, which
provides a swift scratch for the itch

I wake with each day to find out
what fuels human motive and doubt –
particularly what might be
what’s currently speechless in me

that cannot susceptibly find
a rational cause in the mind –
but, alas, I must put off – and wait:
no epiphany now: I’ve a date –

and I’m late.

.