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: