The Muse Reads And Thinks (Muse #17)

The Muse Reads And Thinks

 

This poetry is faff (she thinks,

turning two pages). On a whimsy,

she scrawls in red bic

in the margins of his more maudlin

(she reads) attempts.

 

Her fingers play the words

like made-up morse. She clicks

the pen-top on her teeth,

or draws a crested (she thinks) grebe

under the polite title.

 

Faraway – where is he? – the poet

is binning his spinach. He pops

an adverb in, belatedly, and sets himself

to Regulo 6. The heat

peels off the letters like toy tattoos.

 

What rubbish (she reads) he’s

dealt me. He has a poor (she

thinks) hand. Suckling her lips,

she shuffles his deck,

and turns up a ginger queen,

 

all ruffle and ruby. Her biro drools

through his wet invective.

Meanwhile, in a swelter somewhere,

the poet passes out (she reads).

She reads, she thinks.

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