On Writing Potboilers

To sit no more in gentle shade with pen 

In hand, beneath my silver olive tree.  

To search no more and then to find again,  

Or so it seemed at random times to me,
The pure and perfect word to fit the rhyme,  

From a to b and b to c then d. 

To be alone awhile, to waste some time  

Thoughts flying, idly as a buzzing bee.

Terza rima, sweet chain to life sublime. 

Now, flotsam on the cruel commercial sea, 

I spew out trash... no trace of symmetry. 

KATE FITZROY