Friday, April 19, 2013

Poem



The Muse Named George


He says, "Look, you're having trouble here.
Let me help you work this out."
"No, no," I murmur, chewing the end of my pen,
"I'm fine. Just let me be."

"Well, you KNOW you'll need me eventually.
Why not sooner than later?"
Defeated by his logic, I sigh, put down the pen, and leave.
There are sounds from the other room
a bit like Wrapping Day at Christmas:
paper rustling, little tinkly sounds.

I go outside to mow, to pull some weeds.
Later, have a nap. He wakes me less than gently,
smiling. 'I think you'll like what we've done'
he purrs, smug and cool about it all. "come see."
And sure enough, flowing out of my pen
are words that work, that fit together almost perfectly,
in one steady arc of light that reminds me
of one of those marble fountain statues
of a little boy peeing joyously into the water.

"It's done, now," he says, "except for clean up.
I'll leave that up to you, that's where you really shine,
you know.” And as I settle in, revisions already
spinning out on the paper, he pauses at the door and says,
"Call me if you need me. You always do."

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