I lost a poem last night.
I thought of it in bed
and wrote it in my head.
But sleeping curled in spoons
around my loving lady
is not the way
to recall unwritten poetry.
So, by morning,
the poem had disappeared
with the darkness
and sunrise could not reveal
even a misty memory of rhyme.

Yes, a forgotten poem is
a terrible loss,
but if I must chose between
evaporated poetry
or holding Nancy in a drowsy
sleepy embrase,

well, a poem is such
a paltry thing
and a suckers bet
compared to what I get,
in bed.
instead.