Clio, and the Muse

Poetry Friday

You are like Clio, Muse,

Scratching her chin against the tripod,

She cannot deign to walk the few feet to me.

Crossing that space would admit her need.

She waits until I settle,

There where she can sit next to me

Even then she is restless,

Does she want my touch, comfort or food?

She knows me,

That I am consistent in my habits,

I am the duchess of care, still she resists,

Her old wounds are ever new. 

What a softie,

So are you, Muse, in spite of yourself.

Run away, but you won’t escape.

Hide under the bed all day, I know the place.

The gods gave me that beastie,

Told her, I’m sure of it, 

That I am her saving grace.

What did they say to you? 

No, don’t listen to the Divine,

Keep on over there, at the tripod,

Where there is no there, there,

Nothing to keep you.

Nothing.