Yesterday so much to say, today nothing
beyond eat breakfast, take a shower,
strip the bed. Nothing like housekeeping
to fill blank time, nothing like blank verse
Milton writes to fill his blind hours.
Does he walk while he composes, testing
one Satanic conceit after another?
Every circuit a household blessing
for those charged with Milton’s well-being.
Out the garden door to the wall, reverse
direction. He never hurries, always fondling
his dog, sniffing every tree & flower.
He walks until he hears his minder’s voice —
time for Milton’s milking. He has no choice.
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