My muse drowned
in a torrent of words.
I buried her
on page 243
of War and Peace.
Kafka read the eulogy,
while Ferlinghetti dozed
in the third pew.
I sat Shiva for a week
and the guests brought
endless casseroles of
Westlake, Cornwell and Kellerman.
I waited for Ondaatje
to sooth my grief,
but he was lost
in his own desert.
Her ghost visits me
late at night, in dreams,
when my pen
is always out of reach.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s