I woke up this morning with a poem in my head. It was short and complete and packed a wallop
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiW3l8-s7vda8q2t9HpptHImfmV6nvTvDa_lETKqI1JeNt_xdMBQEtQRcdn_VChyphenhyphenLZJ7iYnlwxhzlFs5yLkRc1bzLRlBM2F0iAMGrjRzgEq3Gyvq2TtPLK99WNatfDuWa8ehaAnsG9GTtP/s320/82034.jpg)
. After getting up, letting the dog out, feeding her a treat for going "potty" in a timely manner, treading through the patio with a flashlight, beating back the remnants of the potato bush which hangs in front of my writing room door, turning on the heater, checking for spiders under my desk and slipping a Nanci Griffith tape into the CD player, I was left with one line: "A world without alarms can become a grind".
How wish I could call our local bookstore and have them search their obscure records for out of print publications and order this poem for me. I really should keep pen and paper beside the bed.
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