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The Muse
I visit my muse
I know where she lives
She appears, wiping befloured hands
on her apron
I’m busy, she says.
I need a word, I say, and describe
its size and shape and colour
She nods and shambles off
nearly upsetting a stanza in her path
A phrase will do, I call after her,
a short one
She returns with nothing
The room was locked, she says,
and she can’t find the key
I threaten to use a thesaurus
Well, she says,
if that’s what you want
She sits down suddenly
at the edge of my mind
and turns her face away.
Later, when I’m driving,
my brain lights up with
a neon parade of words,
phrases, poems, each perfect
Stop, I cry, I don’t have a pencil
Serves you right, she sniffs,
thesaurus indeed
Sandra Casey ©2000
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