Washing dishes, I am struck by inspiration
that cannot be expressed by soapy scalded hands
and half-whistled tunes.
that cannot be expressed by soapy scalded hands
and half-whistled tunes.
Up to my elbows in hot water and casserole dishes
I dictate a mental memo–
To: Muse
Re: Thoughts
I am entrusting to you this spark of poetry.
Please cup your feathers around it
before it winks away.
The suds on my hands would put it out.
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