This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem even though it is written in verse.  The real poem
visited as I was waking, wrote itself into a twilight dream in the form
of  a piano with keys made from an exotic wood that never was and a
charred bathroom covered in blue foam.  The real poem showed me
a man making metaphors sitting at a table on which a fish gasped
for air as I sat across from him trying to understand.  But I let it all go
to doze some more and the Muse moved on to someone willing to
rise up, find paper and pen and pull the real poem from the ether.  And so
this is not a poem. Tomorrow I promise I will be better.