Not My Circus

Poems are exploding out of my mind field Like bullets ricocheting in lots of directions Once they leave the shoot I have no control Ideas are bantered about unlikely, unbidden Un-coaxed, spontaneous out-of-control missiles The same poems that have been imploding in my dreams I ask my muse, do you need my help? She dances and laughs, kicking around ideas Seriously, I say. Can I do anything? She smiles at me and I hear Not your circus, not your monkeys. I begin to type….