For a Lost Muse

I sat today, thinking of you. So, I thought selflessly. It was a disgusting day too. The dogs bayed helplessly At the mountain of fog. The tall clouds unburdened Into filthy manholes. It rained and poured a flood. In a quiet mind, there it waits Your poetry, our song. I felt fine, yes, but who dictates Rain's where, when, and how long. Probably Russia, after all, That'll squeeze us for vodka and potatoes. Every hand to a bottle and a sack; Each donning a cerulean babushka. But the falling rain doesn't soon stop To let me harvest tears. These pages entomb drop-by-drop As white noise crowds our ears.