The Muse

The Muse

Somewhere, deep within my innermost sanctum, lives the Muse.

At least—I think that she lives there.

I hired Her a long time ago, and the details of Her contract are…

Fuzzy.

She was supposed to work only part-time,

For Her rates are almost too much to bear,

No matter how impressive Her credentials.

She does Her job very well,

Though I sometimes worry I don’t keep Her busy. 

I once happened in upon Her,

Thinking to request help with something trivial—I forget.

I was captivated by the airy gown she wore so easily

Like a shaggy lawn wears dew on a misty morning.

But I was shocked by the fact that

She was on hands and knees, scrubbing the floors.

I do my best to keep an orderly inner sanctum,

But it’s true that I don’t get enough chances to escape there,

Like a cabin in the woods deteriorates after years of neglect,

With business meetings and dirty dishes displacing every weekend getaway,

I guess I let it get away from me.

But there was the Muse, scrubbing a cerebral spot on the floor

As fiercely as the Lady Macbeth had ever scrubbed her own bloody hands.

…I decided to come back later.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

I spend a lot more time in my inner sanctum lately—truth be told,

I sometimes can’t seem to pull myself away,

For after having cleaned the room, she proceeded to redecorate.

White walls transformed into forest borders, protected by thick underbrush.

Faded linoleum gave way to lush, living carpet

Ideal for napping in or simply resting tired feet,

the green down peeking out between my toes.

A perpetual snowfall of purple petals tumbles through the air,

sometimes as a blizzard and other times lazily forming piles

that bruise when you step on them and eventually vanish.

I haven’t seen the Muse lately.

I’m afraid she wasn’t under a lifetime contract.

But should the petals turn to dust and my inner sanctum collapse into a blasted waste,

I think she’ll show up, business card in hand, ready to discuss Her rates.