This by Billy Collins from his book, The Art of Drowning.
Last night I labored in a cold scriptorium
printing one large block letter at a time,
at work on some crucial document,
a lost epic, the diary of a famous aviator,
a translation from a language I do not know.
Whatever it was, I cannot raise it now
from the deep harbor of sleep
where schools of fish nuzzle the keels of boats,
but I remember writing for hours in pencil
on immense sheets of unlined paper.
Like some Bartleby of the night shift,
my copying was endless,
and as always in dreams, there was someone
who was trying to interfere with me
and someone else, a vague figure
standing off to the side, who wanted to help.
I must ask you which one you were
when I get out of bed and go downstairs
where I can hear you making the tea,
turning the pages of the morning paper.