It’s early morning and
I sit in the quiet of an unwakened house
French roast beckoning from a warmed white mug
New butter leather notebook with a gold magnetic clasp
And my favorite paper mate ….profile 1.4b ~
the flow of ink which reveals my best script yet
my laptop cursor blinks anxiously, awaiting final draft….
And I….
I am expectantly patient for the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne
Anticipating whispered word wit to fill this whitened page
Instead-
I see dog hair decorating every corner with tumbleweed flair
And dust garnished tables flouting furnace filter’s jest
A spray of kernels from the season finale of Survivor rest in a crevice atop an unfolded throw.
And rays of morning’s ascent disclose nameless prints upon the glass doors.
Perhaps outside on the terrace the daughters will greet
“Calliope, Clio, Thalia ….are you here?”
But the only response is a petulant cry from the off- key chorus
Of garden interlopers which creep amidst the perfection of
Daisy, marigold and lily,
Thorned parasites that require gloves and a pick.
And there are small shoots of seeded turf that pop between the
straight lines of each brick
I am reminded
If sown with intent, they would have failed to take root
No they are booty of the sparrow’s stolen loot
that Honey laid down so carefully in the
bare patches the dog dug while searching for his hopping foe.
And in all this fragmentary noise
And disorder
I cannot hear Euterpe’s call
I fear there is no place
I can escape this unmelodious wail
No way to block the howl
of its dissonant bellow
A prisoner caught in the Asphodel meadows,
I wrestle with the tyranny of all that is undone.
I am left to wait and wander in the valley of
Olympus
