Driving this morning, a poem came to me,
so simple, so pure Keats himself could not conceive it,
and then, turning onto Lombard Street, I lost it.
My first novel, five years in the writing, lept
like an antelope, but it was stolen from our back porch.
To preserve it, I have never written another.
Things are not as good as they were. But that's not the surprise
this mediocre winter Thursday evening
with its ticking radiators and fireplace odors.