Trixie Throws Me Ideas
Poetry prances into my dendrite field, taking charge,
Taking over, taking me hostage
Perhaps I want to paint today, I tell her.
She scoffs. Smacks me lightly on my brain stem.
Makes fun of me.
Calls me names.
I am not in the mood, I tell her, prissily.
Convincing no one.
Least of all me.
You do not have to write metaphors,
She tells me.
We are not good at them
Well, thank you for that, I think.
She sticks out her tongue.
I laugh
She gives me a line
I decide to dig in my heels, ignoring her
The second line entices me a bit
They rhyme
And you know how we love to rhyme
Dram it!
I hastily finish the faerie I was drawing
Cast her aside and
Pick up my notebook which had been on ready-alert,
Just in case
My muse Trixie
The one I give full credit to
Daily
Sometimes hourly
The one who throws me about
And gives me battle axes of my own
Laughs into my face
Way into my face
I mean, pushing her face into my face
Okay, Trixie. I GET IT!
She does not let go of me
Until we have written sixteen poems
This takes thirty-seven minutes
Editing?
Schemditing.
I am not that kind of writer.
And Trixie HATES editing.
We simply do not do it.
I begin to type,
Wondering if any of this
Makes enough sense even to me.
One of them stands out
Trixie has endeared herself to me once again.
And validated me. I think I may be a poet. Not secretly any more though.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2019
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