Since the crisis began my house
Has filled up with muses.
The very old one in the attic
Says my poems would scan better
If I wrote them in Greek.
The golem who occasionally urges me
To write geology lives in the kitchen
(Fortunately, though she never eats,
She cooks quite well). The other muses
Fill couches and chairs or lean on walls
Times are slow in the inspiration biz;
They do yoga or watch tv or speak
To the crows who have also moved in.
The crows insist they're playing parts
And discuss motivation endlessly.
Some think they're directors. When I write
They'll perch near me, shouting
"Slower! Faster! More like Elvis!"
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