Waked, stumbling to step on stone feet -lame
setting down my somewhat rotund frame
with a madcap mind-state -unready
Espresso frothing- wells up steady

Yet, my office is crypt-like, dour --so ...
switching on the room light, then oh no
*Flash-pop* --then it's dark again, ack &$%#
Run to the shed, forage, jogging back
a new bulb, screw out the flop, creaking
fingers fumble, turn -scrapin...

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                                                Only to me , came a poem from His breath

                                               The world He'd done right, 'cept some Irish that were left

                                               So He took these lefties to reason things out

                                               For the Irish don't worry , and never seem to pout

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