Process

Others act up, they’re kept on their mettle

But I read once that John Keats, tubercular,

Took a long bath, to use the vernacular,

Before dashing off lines in a fine fettle.

Then he dressed in soft raiment, shirt specially fine.

He took a firm apple, juice like to prosecco

Before setting to words, quick as a gecko.

He peeled and quartered, he set them in line

Then poured a glass glinting of best Roman wine

Nothing too hurried for those with his ink fix

Since what point are forms for readers wanting signs   

Be it ode, love letter, new, unweariéd:  

What’s tricks pick up sticks only twenty-six

His bloody hankie, the late period.