There was a phrase that I wanted to use in a poem, but my hands were in dishwater and I didn't stop to write it down. Now the dishes are clean, and the phrase and the poem are gone. Next time, the dishes can go to hell. Had I been Lord Byron, I'd have had a domestic for such chores. But then, I'd have had a club foot as well. Had I been Bobby Burns, I'd have been too drunk to do the fucking dishes, but I'd have been pissing poems and songs, still loved centuries later. Had I been Coleridge, my memory would have sufficed. And you can bet that my Irish grandmother, for whom poetry was a survival skill, would have remembered those lines.