Waiting for the muse on Saturday mornings
In a small cafe when it is quiet,
Before the caffeine kicks in, before the weighty world
Rudely shakes the psyche.
It is a cherished time tunnel, diminutive in duration
Where I wait in singular silence contently, peacefully, thoughtfully
With a pensive trance-like stare, lips pursed, not quite sipping,
But nostrils inhaling Columbian steam,
Waiting.
Will the muse descend or ascend?
Materialize or filter through the same visible cracks that let
Sunlight seep?
Will it metaphorically manifest its inspirational presence with
A flourish of trumpets, or will it arrive on crests of
Breezy wisps of air suggesting elevated insights to be arranged
In blank verse?
Will it sit on one’s shoulder breathing prefixes and suffixes,
Connected to rudimentary roots,
Greek in origin?
Munificent muse, show thyself!
Integrate, infiltrate, invade!
Kindly kindle with divine influence!
I pine for a line,
Request an anapest, and
Long for tetra-syllabic insight.
Please, give me an ode
Or something.
Many muse-less scribbles later, I sit
with a cold cup of coffee –
Still staring,
Stalking the stark
Destitute recesses
Of the deserted cafe
for
Elusive revelation.
Gary Arthur has published two text books, five case studies, one poem, and one short story. He earned a Master of Arts degree in Humanities from Cal State, Dominguez Hills.
