T'was the night before tomorrow
and all through my consciousness,
nothing stirred to write a poem about
not even time's lachrymoseness.
When of a sudden did I hear
a stomping from up above,
then came crashing into my room
a strange female grasping a dove.
The bird was quite disheveled,
and this woman was semi-transparent.
I composed myself and bowed.
She winked then said, "I'll have claret!"
I opened a bottle and poured a glass
then handed it to this presence.
She slurped it down with gusto spilling
some on her gown's evanescence.
She said, "Aha, I'm here now
to inspire you, my good chap."
Then she backed into a lamp
and ricocheted into my lap.
"So what'll it be -- unrequited love
or sublimation of some grief?"
Then she snickered with a new idea:
"But why not comic relief?
Obsessing over just dark themes
will make you batty and wrinkled.
So let me whisper a silly thing
for you arabesquely sprinkled."
Then she stood up clumsily flourishing
an adieu while twirling like magic.
She stepped on my Siamese cat's curling tail
and disappeared to howls of panic.
~ TB, 2013