The movies are all wrong. My muse
looks nothing like Sharon Stone,
all blonde and laughter, flowers tucked
into spritely, perfect ringlets.

My muse is the shrewd, cynical
woman in her forties, sitting in
the corner of the dusky bar,
full of one-liners and crank.

She has a wicked sense of humor,
a sharp eye and sharper tongue.
She's got that deep, gravely voice
of a chain-smoker, or a blues singer,

but isn't either one. Her laughter
is full and throaty, and usually
at your expense. And she's dark,
a brunette - smoky, mysterious,

elusive. Quite elusive. A woman
who will stand you up without
an apology or second thought,
and does so, constantly. To say

that you need her is the surest way
to send her running off, or so
my writing teacher always said.
He was right – she’s disappeared

the moment I need her most. And so
writing becomes like love - my muse
is gone, and all I can think about
is her. Funny, that'd make a good poem.

04/25/2005

Author's Note: Last of the imitation poems for my poetry class! Yes! I really did have writer's block, and this really was born out of that. Deadlines do wonders, I tell you. Anyway, imitation of Andrew Hudgins, same as Science Fiction and Fantasy, but no rhythm scheme this time. Humor, though, we do have that.

Posted on 04/25/2005
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