You wake upexcited, determined, nervous.
You have a mission
that you don’t really understand.
You stretch the inches
from the bed to the recliner
to get to work on the poem.

You know its title
but nothing else about your work today.
It came to you in a flash
as your eyes were flickering
just moments ago
and now you need to capture the energy,
the bottled lightning you felt,
when you heard yourself think
“ice cream sandwich.”

“What will this piece be about?”
you wonder.
“Yes, of course: ice cream
shaped between two choclatey biscuits, naturally…
but what is it about?”
The metaphorical pen presses on the metaphorical page
(it’s really a thumb on the mousepad
but that ain’t so lyrical, so…)

“Perhaps I could write about different shades,
the darkness of the biscuits
encroaching on the milky center,
how these elements are better together.”
You pause in consideration,
“But wouldn’t that better be served
by imagining a shop for self-serve yogurt
with all its wonderful mix-ins?

“Maybe it’s about the brain freeze
one experiences
when trying to delight in Summer pleasures
out of season
and how Autumn is for Autumn things
when the Summer should be left behind?

“Or possibly about that ancient Earl,
and how he’d never have dreamed
that his invention would have gone so astray,
that perhaps for him it’s a cold cold day
down in a place where the devil holds sway
where he sees these out in ice creamy display
presented to him for delicious buffet
where he has no choice to opt to say nay
but wearily has to say ‘yea!'”

You start scratching out ideas
onto the metaphorical legal page
(yes, it’s a legal pad now.
Metaphors can expand).
You’re still not sure where it’s going,
but you like the train of thought.
In any case, you’d better finish quick
because suddenly
you feel a hunger coming on
and it’s a doozy.