Is what you write poetry, she asked?

In the aftermath of making love

while lazing on the bed
you mumbled
is what you write poetry
or ramblings
of a drifting heart,
lost in a shoreless sea?

You don’t even know,
she said,
William Blake,
and you can’t discern
chicken drummies
from a juicy steak.

You are generally happy
but then say
your thoughts
always ache.

Well, guess what,
I have not called you
since that night;
days are little lonely,
but hey,
I feel all right.