After Wordsworth realized
he had spent too much time smoking daffodils,
there came a moment between coughs
when he thought,
it had not happened in a long time;
Thinking, that is, had not happened
The smoke had swirled through his brain
And he had been a victim of that vacant mood.
Nor had he considered
how to be productively pensive
how thoughts should rise to the sky
and then filter down again
for his enjoyment,
but not just for enjoyment,
but for consideration.
No, lying on the couch
he evaluated the possibility
that the only thing wrong
was his choice of brands.
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