the poet

"A poet," he said, but did not write.
Somehow the label pleased him
and he recited it all night
in short and unappeased hymn.
Dawn, his wife, found him asleep
on the sofa he had crept to
to well up words that had seemed deep
and, till they were yclepyt, true.
He'd written them with India ink
or would have, had he had some,
on parchment paler than the blink
Dawn cast across the transom.
Words he'd sentenced to write lines
paraded phantom pages
but left no marks to cover fines.
He's been "a poet" for ages.