Perfect poetry comes with perfect surroundings.
I slide up against my wall to prop up my imagination.
The light is boorish,
So I shift the computer off my thighs, roll off my bed
And redefine Grace.
I reach over for the lamp's base,
Slanted just enough to reach the heated knob.
I reach for the computer
and the poem's direction is gone.

Then I decide to write a poem
about my computer
and how it took ten minutes to load a blank page.

And how all the phrasing was swiftly swarming around in my head,
intently looking for a mode of escape.
And how sometimes truly great ideas are lost in the
Truly evident vacuum of time.

If it is not written, it is forgotten.
The world would have forgotten of the cavemen
and their simplistic victories over beast and danger.
No one would recall Shakespeare's gender-confused heroes and heroines
and their casually-complex prose.

The world would be without direction,
swiftly swarming amidst the hoards of progress.