I like the fact that a muse is a goddess.
I picture her adorned in gauzy cotton.
Maybe leaning her back against a veranda in Paris,
(Greece was far too hostile),
Just after a scented bath.
When she enters the room, the air sweetens.
Her bare feet pad across the wood floor.
She perches at the edge of a nearby chair,
Knees folded to her chin.
She will wait me out,
Fill me up with whispered reassurances,
Bring me steaming cups of coffee and laugh at my jokes.
Oh, no wait. I
fell into that trap,
Described the perfect woman, subservient, silent and without
wishes of her own.
I’ve changed my mind.
My goddess muse is a girlfriend.
She only laughs at my jokes when they are truly funny.
And her own wit is so sharp that when she leaves, my cheeks
still stretch into the shape of a smile.
The yoga pants she wears are frayed at the hems.
And there is a smear of booger along the knee where one of
her children clung, before being delivered to a screaming class of
preschoolers.
Or maybe a swipe of frosting from a stolen moment with a doughnut.
Or maybe a swipe of frosting from a stolen moment with a doughnut.
My muse stops by only briefly, the two hours she carved out
of her day precious and rare.
And she makes me pour the coffee. Because the moments we spend together are blazing by and she
doesn’t have time for that shit.
Yep, that’s my kind of goddess.
