’There are squirrels…’ I began. The muse said, ‘Stop with the squirrels.’
I erased what I had written. I said, ‘Now what?’
No answer. The muse whistled. Aeons passed
in review. Real squirrels outside ran up a real tree.
The muse reclined, declining a tray of verbs.
‘Don’t go fancy,’ the muse said. ‘I wasn’t.’ Muse said, ‘Were.’
‘Live in the moment,’ the muse said. ‘Forget fear.
You make yourself sick worrying what might happen.’
‘Don’t,’ I answered. ‘Often,’ said the muse.
‘Write down exactly what it is you feel.’
‘I don’t feel,’ I said. The muse looked at me: ‘Won’t.’
The window on the forest side of the room
blew open, inward. Papers flew and fell.
‘There goes my work’ I said. The muse said, ‘Swell.’