Kalliope raised
an eyebrow
as I tried
to stare her
down.
“I’m stretched too far,
I’m stretched too thin
…and what is out
was never in.”
That,
my meager offering,
my lonely tribute
– was the only verse
that I could manage.
Yet again,
my Muse flinched
at the sight
of her empty grip.
My clutch of ink-less
ink wells
fared no better
(to wit,
sand in the mouth
blots errant letters,
but, worry not,
those unwritten words
will not make the pages
much wetter,
will it?)
…even though
I filled them
with a million
broken pencil
nibs.
“Great sorrow!
This drought,
this dearth,
this strip-mining
of precious stORiES
and other earthy stuffs…
Tomorrow,
unless it bores me,
you will write
your masterwork
and my eternal spring
will flow from me,
cold and lyrical,
into the dusty cracks
of your hollow earth,
where it will pool.
Re-filled anew,
perhaps worthy,
my dear blitherer,
you: the oft-damned
scribbler,
sometimes with
worthless words and wits,
will swell to the shape
of the poet,
the scrivener,
as either the usual empty shirt,
smelling of its
forgotten wearer,
or the wicked wineskin,
stretched so tight,
that even the red-nosed
lush would not dare to
…a twist of the plug,
a sip, or a gulp,
nary the smallest drop
is worth sharing,”
said Kalliope,
as she crossed her legs
and stared right back,
‘ever-righteous,
godly,
unabashed,
and colorfully swearing.
©️ 2020.