“HELP”,  I call

Searching for her among the

Portraits from London.

Alas, there are no werewolves there.

My muse informs me

“It’s all about LOVE”

On the day I awaken

The moment I know

I love him too.

“Oh,” I reply

Will he save my love

safely stored on the shelf

Dust me off later

When I’m gray, wrinkled, and soft?

When I drop food on the floor

Or when I forget to lift 

the seat on the commode?

As if… 

Will he love me then?

“Yes,” the muse replies, even then.

My muse is patient and kind

Gently reminds me that I’m on the clock

She needs to rewind it

Before my love 

Falls off the edge and into a black hole.

Which will require specific math to find itself.

And that is much too taxing

For the nostalgic and reflective.

Take a break, she says

Swiffer and dust off

We have a new adventure

And it will knock your cynic to the curb. 

Dear sweet muse,

Stay close, 

Calm my fear

Speak to me, 

Bring me your barb

And your cheer,

I know nothing 

About this risky business

Called love.

C.S. DeDona 2-12-23

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