Poetry

Mongrel

The muse is a mongrel
And if you try to exert your force on her,
She will hate you for it.
You don’t want a muse that sits outside on a line
Because too long and you’ll find she’s hung herself with it.
None of your guilt will save her.
It will end in a hole
And whether it’s her or you in it
Doesn’t really matter.

You have to want her there.

If you keep her by your side, if you make the time,
If you give her the things she likes —
Wet words to chew on, lots of space to play in,
She will love you. She will grant you every year she has in her,
And on the days that you’re empty,
She will at least stay beside you.

She will want to be there.

But keep the door open
For nights when the moon is full and a wind is coming in
Make sure you have a broom and a dust pan
For days when sandstorms come in
Because she will need to go out into the thick of it
And drag you with her
For no reason but to run in circles
And you’ll hate it
But the richness it will add to your stories
Will be nothing compared to the wonder that will be reflected
In your waking hours.

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