The Moon and the Kitchen Writer’s Muse
I’m in my kitchen late tonight
hankering for my muse—
her head is inside the frigidaire
her face is soiled with leftovers
Close the door, she says
can’t you see I’m eating?
And beyond beyond,
on the dark side of the window
hangs the moon
catching light and throwing it down
smiling and showing off
his bigheaded glow
keeping some things
hidden in shadows.
Oh, look at this tree! says the moon
see the black bark glisten beneath me
as I slowly climb? But don’t look down that alley,
gaze away from that backyard—
nothing much to see there, insists the moon
although I am seeing the unwatched and
hearing their hearts whimper.
But my kitchen is deluxe blended,
six chair-woodened, doubleovened,
warm, gassyblue-hued, fragrantly stewed
and my muse stands on a moonbeam
clutching monday’s meatloaf
and she is uttering
the language of
domestic diva verse.