is it my ink or is it tears are wet?
A poet's always in her muse's debt
her poems never quite the living wage
a muse deserves. Who unannounced arrives
back in imagination, drags my pen
back to that old familiar pain again
from which each time a different joy derives.
A poem's a puzzle that we solve in time
to feel a consummation in the heart
better than lust, or Cupid's savage dart,
We stretch out sated, we are stroked by rhyme
And send the poem to our chaste, sweet muse
who does the same thing, only with smart shoes.