The Poetry Boss

The Poetry Boss came to my door

carrying a stick and a box of pens.

“Well?” she asked, kicking the snow from her boots.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?”

I opened up a little wider

enough for her to edge inside.

She dropped her fur coat to the floor 

in an apathetic heap;

like a prowling fox

foiled;

spoiled.

I recoiled.

Then, reconsidered.

“Would you like to see my oil paintings?”

I politely inquired as her eyes scanned the room.

Ignoring my words, she moved to the kitchen table

and sat down.

“Let’s get to work,” she said, with a snap of her stick.

It was not an opinion,

or an option,

or even a misty cloud of inspiration.

But rather 

a matter

of fact,

like those pens, now scattered like snakes

running for cover

falling off the edge of the earth

“Get me a glass of wine.”

Her stick tapped the floor,

a metered rhthym

counting down

the innevitable.

This was inspired by my dear friend Nancy Rosback who really did just about shake me by the virtual lapels, demanding some good poetry. I am grateful.

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