Author's Note: I don’t believe in Writer’s Block (this month’s theme) but I do believe in the Muse, or her absence. She’s sensitive, shy, and I have a blundering tendency to say something that spooks her. Fortunately Muse has a sister known as Buxom Belle. Buxom Belle carries a rolling pin. She will brook no excuses. She will demand that you sit your ass in that chair with your fingers on the keyboard. The one thing Buxom Belle cannot do is give you words. As writers, we are compelled by one, inspired by the other. Both are essential. 


Barefoot Lady


Faint gray prints of a woman’s feet
mark the asphalt of my street. 
Full arch, ten toes 
the trail goes, 
halting at my front door, the potted fern. 
No return. 

Who came? 
Who stays? 

I am alone. 
But apparently not. 
Barefoot lady, are you here? 
Do your fingers tap each lettered key? 
Do you dance? Dance with me? 

My dogs sleep, curled, sensing nobody. 
I sense that you are playful, 
a warm wind, 
gray smoke.

Have we met before? Was I crude?
Your spirit grips me. Let’s be nude!
Whisper metaphor to my ear
while I unhook your pink brassiere.

Show me
your tattoos.
Let’s kill
these blues.