Succumbing to the muse’s madness
Ok, Ok, I’ll do it!
Finally I give into the
muse's persistent nudging
and write a poem about,
and this is the embarrassing part,
Yes, a shoehorn.
See what I mean?
What is the madness
in this invitation?
I mean, where is the beauty
in such a ordinary object?
Poets are supposed to write about
songs of the heart,
beating with powerful metaphor.
Or at least living things,
helping sleepy eyes open
to the beauty of a flower,
tree, stream or blade of grass.
I have a hard enough time
feeling good about what I write
and now she wants me to
wax on about a … shoehorn.
So the argument went
to no avail. You want to
be a poet, she insisted,
pick up the pen and write.
Oh, and one more foil
did the muse propose
that this poem be composed
in Rhyme Royal. (a-b-a-b, b-c-c)
THE SHOEHORN (clear throat now)
There was an age when men and women too
thought it virtue to wear things that caused pain
so adorned their feet with the strangling shoe.
To torture one’s feet in these casual days is inhumane.
Now with slip-ons and sneakers the shoehorn seems vain.
As zippers, snaps and velcro replace the lowly button
The music of the shoe’s horn soon will be forgotten.