Saturday, January 12, 2019
(This picture is from the first day I met Penny, some 10 years ago).
Idled by Penny Hackett-Evans
The Muse is on strike.
The factory has shut down.
The paychecks bounce.
Parts of poems lie on the floor
gathering dust and rust.
I peer through the dirty windows…
What am I to do?
I imagine trying to shape
a handmade, one-of-a-kind, artisanal poem
one made of fine exotic wood,
hand rubbed, like the ones
you see in the New Yorker.
But, I know
that’s not going to work.
And anyway, I am sort of jealous
of the Muses sitting across the way
at the bar, eating nachos,
in the middle of the afternoon,
laughing, telling stories of the hapless
poets they work for.
I’ve half a mind to join them.
Penny and I have been friends for some 10 years or so, but we have only met two or three times. When I first knew her, she was just beginning to write poetry, but since then her work has become ever more refined and polished. She sends out a weekly poem to 50 or more subscribers and I always enjoy her offerings. She and her husband stopped in Boulder recently on their way to California from Michigan and we had a delightful reunion.