For my (many?) Muses
In truth, it’s a club rather exclusive –
Relative to, you might say, Madison
Square Garden; nigh a score of elusive
Muses. Plus a mad sonneteer undone
By words – admittedly a clumsy tool –
For he frights the hearts he would admire.
‘Tis an easy task: arousing a fool,
Immolating his soul upon the pyre
Of love, then leaving him to beg favor
While tilting vainly at the dragon lust.
Would not one reach out; becoming savior
To a poet, thus mending broken trust?
Lady, forgive
this proliferation;
I swear, it could ne’er dilute affection.