The Muse and Her Moons (Muse #13)

The Muse and Her Moons

 

The doorbell rings. The muse,

dishevelled, in her party tartan dressing-gown,

her hair slurred,

sleepwalks to the door.

 

There is a shadow, haggling its hands,

at the step. It is the postman. I

bring you five moons, he claims,

scratching his forelock.

Special delivery.

He offers the regulation biro,

leaking, and requires

the pigment of her signature.

 

Five moons. She signs,

sighs, slams the latch, and stands

in the archway, bemused.

What is this with moons?

She has not made him a moon

in a blue month of Mondays.

 

A thought strikes like a stone.

Wait! she calls, as the shadow

dissolves into footsteps.

 

Yes, madam, he says,

with a grin foxing his face.

He is almost invisible, a sketch.

Take these moons, she tell him,

they have white light inside them,

I have not ordered them,

I have not

summoned them up.

 

The postman traipses away,

with a bag of cracked moons.

He leaves them, unpublished,

under a bundle of bags and satchels.

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