Sometimes My Muse Goes AWOL on Me

A poem

Photo by Alex Perez on Unsplash

Sometimes she leaves me with
my trousers down.
Sometimes she tells me Americans
say pants, not trousers.
Sometimes I turn round and
my muse goes AWOL on me.

I’m digging at the heart of a novel
about the apocalypse (what else)
and she stumbles in wearing
a sombrero, sipping a vodka
Martini and slurring this,
“I’ve had enough… I’m leaving you, loser.”

Years later, I get a letter
postmarked Mexico City, so
I tear it open and it’s her,
“I have found my calling, guess
it wasn’t you. Ha.”
She’s always been deliciously creative.