Nine Muses

On Saturday the muse fell out of a taxi Drunk as a skunk, one eye like an addled egg What pen could resist a grim faced tosser like that? On Sunday the muse was a dark cloud filled with rain It bore grave portents, heavy as a flower topped coffin Pulled across the heavens, a dead weight On Monday the muse was a ladybird on a stone It quivered, missing the sun The warmth of company On Tuesday the muse was a six year tossing a tampon A new toy, she didn't know its use On Wednesday the muse was a mongrel Straining to defecate on Bannockburn, A whole bus watching On Thursday the muse was Wisdom Found in a daughter longtime overlooked Like a roadside violet, modest and delicate On Friday the muse was a robin, broken necked Something the cat trailed in, a flame extinguished At midnight the muse was a full moon Setting the wards in asylums all a-howling The nursing sybils say At dawn, the muse was Green Tara's cave In a raging burn in Balquidder Like a small snappy Dandy Dinmount Pretending to be a wolf