Happy to Do It Trixie
poetry crawls out of my dreams and shakes her head
she entices me with a line that wakes me up in a weird way
disoriented, all I know is that I need to grab a pen or a computer
she gives me no freewill; I am her captive, her prisoner.
My fingers are itching to either write or type
we do not care which anymore; but poems are making noises
shaking shimmering shabby chic missives exploding in our mind
I say our, so I can include Trixie, my muse, who is persnickety
She insists on getting paid credit. To not do this would be suicide.
I would die a slow death, under her warm tutelage.
no one has a muse any more persistent or insistent than Trixie.
She forces me to do her bidding; I am her minion.
Happy to do it, Trixie, truly, I am.
Snicker Snicker
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