Call this a perfect day, a damp and grubby morning lacking
Sun, of course, but also urgent tasks, distractions, noise
Or pains. The world of others out of sight, and, mine,
I fear, exactly suited to my dismal state of mind, I sit
At ease, and write a poem empty of significance, it's
Words set out and shaped for nought, but my own
Entertainment. Yes, if its state endures past morning,
I will go to bed tonight believing this had been
A perfect day.