1.
I apologize to my battered muse,
once again elbowed aside
by in-crowding concerns,
loud and demanding,
like rich American tourists
invading by the busload
a Mexican village
right at siesta.

She shrinks and retreats.

2.
My mind is too noisy and busy
for the careful, considered crafting of words,
which, like a soufflé
or a tower of cards
demand stillness and patience
to realize themselves.

My words need a quiet space
to become poems.

Text and
image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.