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!
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