I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health if 
         somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
         breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal with John Keats.
Keats said I was right to invite him: due to its glutinous texture, gluey 
         lumpishness, hint of slime, and unusual willingness to 
         disintegrate, oatmeal must never be eaten alone.
He said it is perfectly OK, however, to eat it with an imaginary 
         companion, 
and he himself had enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund
         Spenser and John Milton.
He also told me about writing the “Ode to a Nightingale.”
He wrote it quickly, he said, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in
         his pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the 
        stanzas, and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and 
        they made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
        they got it right.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the configuration of a 
        Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up and peer about, then 
        lay itself down slightly off the mark, causing the poem to move 
        forward with God’s reckless wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
        the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some stanzas 
        of his own, but only made matters worse.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
        lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there is 
        much of one.
But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field got him started 
      on it, 
and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy 
        cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,” came 
        to him while eating oatmeal alone.
I can see him — drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into 
         the glimmering furrows, muttering —and it occurs to me:
Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.
For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from 
        lunch.
I am aware that a leftover baked potato can be damp, slippery, and 
        simultaneously gummy and crumbly, 
and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh to join me.