Ode to John Keats
Several days after having read "Ode on a Grecian Urn."
John Keats nudged my shoulder this morning softly;
I grumbled about the hour and looked out the window
at the sun that was barely up. “Come on, John, give
me five more minutes.” He just said “no” in a whisper,
flicked on my bedroom light, and walked away.
“Jesus Christ, John,” I said to him as I stepped barefoot
and sleepy down the stairs, “why are you such a bother?”
He just shrugged and kept on eating his cereal.
