I share Lydia, my muse, with several other writers.
She’s a time-shared muse.

I don’t like the arrangement,
But, I accept that she’s in demand and
I have little choice in the matter.

Occasionally, she talks about her other clients–
how one of them is getting his first novel published and
how another was named poet laureate of her home town.

But do I care?

I don’t give one scrap of paper, one digital.com
about her other clients.
I want Lydia all to myself.

When Lydia does give me her full attention,
I’m so inspired, I put Honore de Balzac’s manic
work process to shame.

When she’s on leave,
my ideas and thought snippets vanish,
replaced by cliches and tired tropes.

If I bring that problem up to her, she says,
“We need to talk about that.”
But we never do.

When I mention co-dependency issues,
She laughs and jokes,
“Maybe all you need is for me to sprinkle fairy dust
on you, the kind that clings indefinitely.”

“Yes!” I say. “Yes! Yes! Please do that!”

“You’re my favorite client,” she says, putting her
arms around me.

While her filmy layers of chiffon envelop me,
I feel momentarily warm inside and protected.

But do I believe her?

Not for one muse minute.