The One Whose Name Was Writ in Water

I like to picture Keats on days like this.
Strolling though a teeming wood,
with a simple book, eyes upon the boughs.
A single raindrop falls on his buckle
as he breathes in the plump odor of Autumn.
At night, dark candles flicker upon his quill
as he composes with words that taunt him.

I'd love to show him what it's like now.

I imagine him coming through my back door,
opening my fridge, tasting the Cool Whip,
contemplating the tune of my laptop,
the constant vibrations of my cell,
lightly licking an orange pill.
He starts as the mail falls through the door,
burns himself on a forgotten hair straightener,
trips over misplaced wires, balled like a tumor.
He'd write a poem on my dry erase board
and stare at my bookshelf –
thousands of titles jeering down at him:

There's nothing left!
“Oh” is too romantic,
“epic” is cliché.
Nice try, dipshit!

He'd drive himself past
the sanity of his pen,
longing for those tacit nights
when the mist twinkled
over frosty streams,
lightning tapped against the window,
and sighs cooed around
every peeling corner.