Maisie

Maisie knows. Whenever I settle down with a book she is already there, fussing and purring, insinuating herself between my eyes and the page with soft determination. While I try to change position to accommodate her, she slaloms around my arms, expertly remaining central and obscuring my view.
It is as if she can anticipate every move and calmly prevent it with sinuous and practised ease. She always succeeds.
Even before I think of reading, Maisie knows.

The Muse

L’égérie (The Muse) it said

On a plastic plaque beside the work.

I looked at it (a long time)

But felt no echo in my mind, 

No similarity with mine.

How could this angular thing inspire?

This flat, red multiple thing

With extra heads, but lacking arms

(and charms). I could not see.

Perhaps sculptors need a driving force

More pointed (or with razor's edge)

To guide their hands, their hammers,

Or their welding torches.

We of the words need gentler touch

(I feel).