I guess I dreamed that last poem.
I suppose
the ideas
I thought I put down
in rhythm and rhyme
with the eloquence
the subject demanded
was nothing more than a figment
as was your reaction
when you told me
it was the best I’d ever written
– the best anyone
had ever written
ever.

I suppose it was a lie
my fevered brain
told me
in the middle of the night
and I never wrote any such thing
about a mouse
and a house
in a blouse.

It never happened,
you say.
Maybe it’s true.
Maybe my best work
never really occurred
– until I remember enough
to get it all down!