Perhaps it was the way I sat there – hands alert

over laptop keys as birds welcomed in the first morning light –

that finally drove inspiration away.


Tired of my constant attention, I suspect she simply

needed some space.  I can almost see her, rounding the corner

on a journey to someplace a bit more exotic.


Perhaps she’s strolling the Champs Elysees

wearing a jaunty beret and sipping espresso

at sidewalk cafes in the noonday haze, a cigarette


teetering wryly between her finger and thumb

as she lazily plumbs the mysteries of Verlaine

and the secrets behind that reticent smile.


Or perhaps she departed for wilder places

where the air is heavy with the scent of gardenia

and the echoes of capuchins bounce overhead


as she hacks with machete through dense jungle floor

to carve out a path that will help her descend

to the temple of wisdom and transcendent light.


But as for me, I’ll stay right here – fingers poised and hands alert –

and watch the steam rise off my coffee as the mama robin

searches the yard for a buried worm to feed to her young.

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