Tomorrow’s Poem by Robert Wexelblatt

The Muse, up before the sun, will

shake me awake. “Wake up, you lout;

the iron’s hot. Brush, take your pill,

breakfast, pee. Get up!” she’ll shout

and I’ll obey, dismiss the doubt

that she’s no more than a dawn dream,

mythic close to this cursed drought,

that she’s enceinte with form, with theme,

and will serve up both as I

dash to my desk, uncap my pen

and luminously versify.

Sure, she’ll come tomorrow—that’s when.