So the Muse,
Who has been conspicuous
Only in her absence these last weeks
(At the spa, perhaps,
So the Muse
Came back today.
She found me in the shower,
Soap in my hair,
And she put words into my head
That wellspring of creativity
It cannot be
That I, who stand so much
In my Ego self,
Got this gift again naked
And all over soap.
And, although some of the words were there
When I was finally dry and dressed,
Others had gone,
As I must let them go,
Those words were not the ones to light lights,
Cradle the new earth as she gives birth.
Or, if they were,
The goddess redirected them
And some other poet got their gift.
One who bathed less often, perhaps,
Or who could walk
Out of the bath dressed only in soap.
One willing just to be the words,
Whose absolute unconcern
Over when the meter reading man was due
Was matched only by
Her lack of caring about what shampoo might do
As she sat typing
And dropping suds like dust across her desk.