Monday, May 18, 2009

The Strapping of the Wench

In hiding place I found my muse
made of pewter air
breathed her in like cool and dark
a chocolate from the Frigidaire

My muse WAS there but she’s not fair
now she’s stuck in scenery of heart
between the tender nape of neck
and the garden afraid to start

She is part of the transformation
in movement out the door
the sound she makes cries free me
and then hold me evermore

Twirl she says in softest voice
to me with a evil wink
then lifts her pretty skirt off floor
and dances in my ink

I brush her off my shoulder
in her next whim then I find
she is flapping arms and darting tongue
in rhythm from behind

I’m tired of chasing after her
can’t she see I need a break
my words are screaming in my head
and what comes out now just seems fake

She jokes a lot when I am down
thinking she’ll get me laughing
but if I could catch that wicked wench
she would get a real good strapping

No comments:

Post a Comment