The Life of a Poet

There's dirty dishes in the sink and so my mind does roam
to realms of whimsy and delight, where I may write a poem.
For poets never deign to use their hands for honest toil;
we'd rather look at daffodils or contemplate snake oil.
We are so very delicate that calluses repel
our very sensibilities and make us feel unwell.
But poets also lack the means to hire a cute maid,
and so I'm in the kitchen with Palmolive getting sprayed . . .