A poem in my head

I woke up this morning with the first stanza of a poem in my head. This hasn't happened in a long time. How does it get there?

Half-awake, I wrote another stanza in my head, then changed the rhyme scheme and rewrote both, then got up and finished it with my first glass of iced coffee. Here it is, untitled.

I thought old age would turn my life

to simple living without strife.

This is not how life turned out.

All around me come the shouts

of broken dreams, come cries of woe

by neighbors whom I do not know.

It's hard to find simplicity

in all this noise. I think that we

have lost the art of simple things:

the stillness that the morning brings,

the way a dog will wag its tail,

the rhythm of the morning mail.

I'm no better than the rest.

Though I say I do my best,

I don't live life to the bone.

I leave well enough alone,

my mantra this eternal curse:

well, I guess life could be worse.