as if sheer will
and the heavy tap-tap-tapping
pounding the keys
will arouse the muse.
He is still hidng under the covers
from the noon day sun,
grumpy and uncooperative.
“Stop working me so hard,” he grumbles.
“Even a muse needs his sleep.”
Perhaps he is in the wrong bed
and is not my muse at all.
You know how muses can be sometimes.
They wander off into the wrong places
at the wrong times
then feign innocence, ignorance
when no words of relevance appear on the screen.
©Birdstory Publications, 2008