Monday, September 27, 2010


Poetry always strikes
it seems, when
I don’t have a pen,
or when my pen is
out of ink, or
if I’ve run out of paper, or
my Blackberry’s on the fritz, or
when I have to run for the bus, or
when I’m driving a
two__ hundred__ mile__ trip.

It's an inconvenience, I think, this
passion, this pursuit. Then it
occurs to me: the Muse cares not
about mortal minutiae, or such
trivialities as
or tools.
she comes,
when she comes,
light of foot
soft of voice,
woe to him,
who cares more
for the number of some
bouncy young thing,
or he who must run
for the bus with
soggy hot coffee cup
in the middle
of a downpour
when the Muse drops by for
she’ll probably
___ pass
and shrugging her shoulders
_______as she goes.

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