Possibly Time To Get a Dog

I beseech my muse to return to my dendrite highway. She laughs and skips away, off to a new poetic interstate. Come back! I shriek, no longer hearing her red boot steps. I stare at the pristine snowy white of a page. I can do this. Ten minutes, thirty, fifty-two, an hour. Nothing. What kind of magic is this? Were all the ideas Trixie’s, all along? Did I have nothing to do with the poems she wrote? I take a little nap, eat a snack of peanut butter on crackers. Fix lunch. There is nothing interesting about lunch. Two hours have passed. Maybe it is time to get a dog. I feel annoyed, perplexed, provoked. My pen has made swirls, circles, dots. I have written the words “dance, prance, joy and boy” six times. I circle them and put stars by them. Cartoons begin to form. A new hobby? I hope so!