CIVIL TWILIGHT

Drowsy bees, loathe to sting,
Buzz querulous inquiry as I pass
Grass gods cease and then resume
Interminable wars against fate
A quiet door swings shut
A small hand moves a candle
From one window to another.

HARRINGTON'S MUSE

James Harrington, I hear, had a rough muse
She'd come to him late at night, drunk,
Her clothes torn from a fight she'd picked
With a sailor twice her size and kick Harrington
Until he’d throw off the covers and leave his bed.
He’d stumble about, lighting a candle,
Sharpening a quill, spilling ink on his nightshirt,
While she stood muttering to herself or shouting
"Haste, laggard! I’ve a bonzer poem for you!"
Many a time, when he was finally set to write
He'd find her collapsed on his bed, snorting,
Thrashing, choked on tears and laughter,
And then she’d sleep the clock around.
He left her at last for the sedate goddess
Of lengthy works of political economy.