Me, I’m dangling from bare threads,
turning on nonexistent treads,
hatless here on weathered ground,
mere threadbare glove without a hand.

Not too many can flip my switch,
fewer care to scratch my itch,
fingers folding upon themselves,
whispered, silent, stifled yells.

Such is the stuff of inspiration,
sparking from no clear revelation.
Who could imagine their redemption
arriving on THAT fool contraption?

A black dog slips in through the gate
surveying our space inviolate.
He sniffs shrubs and noses roses
with careless, thoughtful three-legged poses.

The cats, of course, beyond distressed,
flee to the safety of their nests,
Cowering courageously
until that pup will take her leave.

If life were smooth and soft and warm,
if trivial things could do no harm,
If we knew for sure no sky would fall
What would we do ‘tween short and tall?

Short, the obvious underling,
And Tall, outgrown most everything;
Between the start and the tippy top
lies pretty much everything we’ve sought.

And in that swirl of clear privation
lies the solace, inspiration,
wearing ragged, useless clothes
He comes as capriciously as he goes.

No need to set the visitor’s table
or change the linen, he is able
to slip in and out without a rustle,
timing clearly short of hustle.

But you can depend upon his step,
appearing many times, mid-schlep,
stumbling already humbling hobble
bringing some bright and beautiful bobble.

No one will ever understand
when you try your best to explain the plan.
They’ll insist upon some explanation,
when inspiration refused to leave one.

Take the credit with the blame,
nothing could ever be the same.
You can depend upon this friend.
No one could ever comprehend.