Time to Write a Poem

A little cuckoo

The Muse enters from the door in the cuckoo clock.
The poet is not finding the time to sit down and do her work, the Muse wants to help.

The Muse points to the clock and gives the poet a box of time: an hour, some minutes, a few seconds, a coffee break, an interlude, and a pregnant pause.

The poet pours the contents of the box out on a table, a few minutes roll onto the floor and the cat swats them under the bed where the poet, in an effort to retrieve them, spends time with a photo album she stored under there that triggered a memory.

The poet returns to the table and takes an hour, holds it in her hand examining its pressure, its lack of mirth, and the intricate contour of shoulds. Next minute, she finds herself on Facebook until the hour has flown.

Some minutes left on the table vanish into the air making little cartoon popping sounds.

The Muse takes her arms and holds them like hands of a clock, makes ticking sounds, and then clears her throat in that attention getting way that Muses clear their throat when they are trying to get your attention and not really needing to clear their throat for any other reason. The poet.. is now checking the refrigerator for leftover cherry pie.

The Muse freezes, at a loss for what to do; she likes cherry pie too.

The poet takes her time, finishes her pie, and leaves the room.

The Muse, now ticked off, rolls her eyes and flies out the window to the song writer next door who is actively writing a ballad and could use a good refrain.

The poet pulls five minutes out of her pocket and writes this poem.