On my back rides a muse who lands
on some mornings without warning,
but when there, words pour from me
like ink from a quill pen stuck in position.
I love this muse, yet sometimes cannot stand
him because he controls me and doesn’t allow
me to do anything but write on command.
When he’s around, I cannot divorce myself
from my words. I can barely pull myself
up from this chair to prepare a cup of tea or
answer to my FedEx delivery dropping off a box—
something my daughter ordered on EBay,
or make dinner for my family. It’s funny how this muse
makes me feel like a derelict who gets nothing else done.
My left mouth complains of his arrival
and right side bows with thanks
because when he leaves
I beg for his return.
Sometimes he swoops down at the wrong time.
I am scared to ignore him because
I never know when he’ll march
back into my life again…but I’m always ready.
