ThinkstockPhotos-505946020.jpgMy unflappable, or so I thought,
Muse sat on the lumpy sofa
Tatting fine Belgian lace,
Even though she was 100% Polish.

She knotted and looped ideas
For the poet (that’s me)
All lassoed and ready to use.
Sometimes lyrical, mostly not.
They were outrageously
Entertaining thoughts.

Not about usual “navel searching” characters,
Instead these were true eccentrics,
Born and bred.

No smoothing the wrinkles of
Universal human experience,
Or calming the waters, bringing
They were real, drawn from
All of my neighbors,
Who are
A little bit off-plumb.

Enjoying these
Wacky habitués, the Muse engaged
Them in uproarious conversation.

This bizarre critical mass,
Drank the same water,
Sucked in the same air,
Watched the same sheep amble by.

As I poetized their strangeness,
Muse helped by plopping
Person after person into the jelly pot of
Syrupy wit, coating them with more oddness.

They loved the notoriety.

Women with android hair,
Men with plumber-wedgies,
hiking up their pants
For effect.
Artists catching invisible light on a barn’s wall,
Impossible to do.

Dripping cherry red gunk on the sofa, on the lace,
On my note pad,
They were grist for me,
But pests to Muse.

She had had enough.
Testy as always.
She packed herself up, her
Bobbins and shuttles,
And like a wisp, she made it to the door.

With one comment she thought
She sealed my fate.

‘You dreamed them up, now
You deal with them.
Oh, and by the way,
Lots of luck,
getting yourself
A new Muse!”

Unflinching, I had the perfect retort.
“Muse, When the boredom sets in,
You’ll be back.
Adieu, Amuse, Adieu.”

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
June 13, 2018