
Even the empty nails on/
museum walls speak.
By volunteering/
you might get to see hidden/
places others won’t.
What better gift could/
there be than literary/
immortality?
Driving top down in/
warm desert nights, I can find/
cool Chicago blues.
Does she still read me?/
Years of silence don’t mean that/
I’ll forget my Muse.
They always claim that/
they are too busy for love,/
until they are not.
I wonder if she/
even knows how much she fuels/
creativity.
OR
I wonder if she/
even knows how much she fuels/
creative juices.