We Are Not the Romantic Types
The words are spinning, twirling, dancing, laughing
Throwing my imagination into the air, letting it drop with a plop
A rhyming poem? No. That is not what I am in the mood for today.
I glare at my muse. We can surely do better than this I tell her
And I use my snotty voice for she is always messing with me.
Making fun of my missives. Tearing them apart.
She can be a nasty piece of….
SHH! Here she comes now.
Can I help you? I ask her. She is wearing her pink feathered boa.
It’s got glitzy silver sprinkles, and she tosses them onto my desk.
If we are going to write, let’s write, she says.
My fingers stop typing.
I know better than to cross her.
It was a savagely windy, twirling, whirling day, I begin.
She sticks out her tongue.
At least she did not slap me.
I am feeling like a winner.
Let’s make it romantic, I suggest.
She laughs and cannot stop laughing.
We are not the romantic types.
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