where the writers are
Inspiration

At first, it's got no manners,
eats with its fingers, slurps the soup,

kisses with too much tongue.
It thumbs through my foolscap

of false starts: the moon and both Dippers
wheeling through long red slashes,

a braid of Xs marking a map to nowhere.
It rolls its eyes and lies down

with a cool cloth on its forehead.
All night, imposters ring the doorbell,

darting away like fickle romeos.
I answer each call and do not notice

when inspiration leaves. It returns,
Sunday hat in hands. Show me some ID I say.  I am your ambulance, it replies.
And you are my car wreck.

Comments
2 Comment count
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Speak to me

Surly not "too much tongue" but just misguided enthusiasm.

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Dale!

Prolly. ; )

Cheryl Snell www.shivasarms.blogspot.com