Your new poet-self surprises
me, appears unexpected
not even 8:30 a.m. and you’re flitting
about in a loose bathrobe, while I finish
the laundry, spouting the ephemeral
nature of mayflies
years to develop, only one day as an adult
with no mouth, laying thousands of eggs

this seems the stuff of poetry
but as you go on about histogenesis, diaphase,
subimago, Occam’s Razor while I am
eating peanut butter toast
with apricot jam – and you, waving
your wide-winged arms – I try
to lock in, but the notions are fleeting,
last not even one day