And I sit here, hearing a muse snicker, br Informing me that I’ll never compose br A poem worth the time wasted on it. br I pace the floorboards and listen br To Bob Dylan; he can inspire br The most drab of us. I think of him br As flee bane growing wild in my garden, br Having that special something. I think br Of Hart Crane and his reckless love br Affairs; I think of John Berryman br And his madness; I think of Emily br Dickinson and her cognitive br Cloister; I think of Ovid, eating olives br And bread, exiled - for writing about love br And sex – so far from Sulmo, his home. br I’ve been at it for over twenty years br And still feel uncomfortable calling myself br A poet. I remember my father say the word br With disdain. He would have been br More proud if I’d had been a ditch br Digger. At least that would have been br Manly. Upon my first published poem, br He asked, “Are you going to be rich? br No? Then what good is it? ” He wanted br Me to be an engineer. Earn a true wage. br I sit here looking at the white blank br Upon my screen and can’t even br Record the brittle feeling of this morning br As the temperature drops toward freezing br And we’re only a few days from June. I br Can’t describe the shock of the morning glories br As they reach out of the dirt with their fang like br Leaves. I am stuck on words and images like br A paper jammed copy machine. I can’t br Hear what to say, for my muse has gone away br Into her own madness and delusions, leaving br Me here with an opportunity I’m bound to miss.