He felt that for sure it must be some time somewhere.
He talked to himself many minutes about that.
The after-noon appurtenance seemed strange.
‘If this were any time anywhere at all,’ he thought,
‘I would’ve sworn that the time it was were morn.’
It’s a teapot. What? The pot. Thing what you called
appurtenance. Apparently it’s time
to pore, not snore, nor cogitate no more.
It is strange how poems spring complete, neat, and well ordered from mind to paper. Well, they actually don’t:
Earth Tourist 
Much enjoyed this, and it was fun to see your handwritten process in the accompanying photo.
Thanks, Elise. I wrote this on a 3 1/2 in. square of paper that I was holding up against the back of a Kurt Vonnegut paperback, not bothering with careful spelling or dotting i’s and crossing t’s because the function of the note was only an aide memoir until I got to my Mac and dictated using Dragon Nuance into Scrivener for editing.
A lesson for us all. Poetry does not spring suddenly from the breast. Hard work! Much appreciated.sjl
Sent from my iPad
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Many thanks, Sandra. Too true about hard work. A case in point is Graeae, a poem of mine you probably will never see, about which I just came across this note to myself: ‘Revised 11/12/1998, 11/07/2000 (I tried to advance this one and found it not worth the bother [Shurly “beyond my skill to improve it to minimum standards”.Ed.])’