MUSE

Though she drove me hard, my muse

Used to be punctual, stopping by

In late afternoon; or to watch the day turn

Upon the point of midnight. Quality did not worry us

We were after numbers; the notebooks still exist

Filled with rough drafts, placeholders for the ones

Which would come in time and take their lordly places

Calm and serene, with every word inevitable.

I’m not sure if the muse who comes now

Is the same who visited me then. If she is

I have not been good for her. She comes in half-frantic

At any hour, disheveled, grumbling, muttering

“Who said that you were a poet?’

When I say “Surely it was you,” she groans

And shakes her head and kicks me awake.