The desk is cold to my hand.

I can not command

My poetic muse.

So think of girls who lose their shoes,

And poets who

Say more than they ought to

Of women and wine

And men who may seem

To spend their time

In fleeting dreams.

 

But it is no crime

For a poetic muse

To lose

Her ethereal shoes.

Yet what can be said

Should she lay her fickle head

Upon the poet’s empty bed

Where love sleeps.

Or is dead.