The Poem That Got Away

The most marvelous poem danced across my ending dream today. I popped open my eyes, and my earth mind kicked in, She had totally and absolutely cleanly got away. Fabulous, she was the best one yet. She had real class. I jumped out of bed, and began to search. Saw her glide past the bathroom doorway once, but really fast. I looked under my bed pillows, and I called her, using the word please. Pushed away piles of papers, and opened the dictionary. But she was nowhere in sight, that fabulous little flirty tease. I caught a glimpse of her ice skating on the cover of the dictionary As I was making French toast, but by the time I had left the kitchen That poem had evaporated faster than yesterday’s ghost, Mr. Harry. She was probably the sixth poem this week that has “gotten away.” I laugh at my detective skills that were not savvy, but wanted to play. Trixie, we never did catch the poem who simply did not want to stay. My muse Trixie is not happy, she is actually mad that I wrote this news. Settle down, I say, it’s not that big a deal, we can capture another. Her face is red, and she is kicking my head with her black and white saddle shoes. Trixie is the one who gives me these missives, and she gets hot when I lose one. I’ll write another one I tell her, it is okay, really, let’s go have some fun. I saw my poem when I was sitting in this recliner waiting for inspiration to kick in. Trixie was chasing her around the kitchen. They were both gone before I had gotten out my pen.