Muse Sleeps In

— Jackie Bates —

This morning I wake him to help me capture
the early spring sunrise.

He does not join me on the deck.

Does not, alas, steady my hand,
choose words for vibrant color,
suggest changes in meter or meaning.

I return to the house, find him still in bed,
face buried in rumpled pillow.
hair spiky from sleep.

Headache, he mumbles. Ennui. Big time.

What muse says, Big time?

I touch his shoulder, promise coffee.
Bacon, even.

One gorgeous blue eye opens. Stares.
As if he’s never seen me before.

Print Friendly, PDF & Email

**If you are reading theOrcasonian for free, thank your fellow islanders. If you would like to support theOrcasonian CLICK HERE to set your modestly-priced, voluntary subscription. Otherwise, no worries; we’re happy to share with you.**