Muse in Passing

A poem from a few weeks ago - stemming from one of those resonant glimpses of an everyday occurrence which seems to have extra implications for you, and the other things on your mind. In this case a continuing twinge of guilt for not paying enough attention to inspiration, in whatever form it (she? he?) visits, and a resolution to do better should the opportunity arise in future:


Quick Draw

Scuse me, have you got a pen?
I’m stopped in the corridor –
first floor – start to fumble
in my thick work bag

The girl stands, blank paper
in her hand. Outside an office door.
Her boyfriend’s agitating. C’mon.
I know it’s in there,

but somehow, what with papers,
unmarked essays, and
my poor crushed diary,
the pen’s elusive.

I push my fingertips in
down to the cluttered ridges
- find a lipstick, whiteboard marker,
bracelet I decided not to wear.

The girl stands hopeful still,
though he wants me gone.
Finally I proffer her a biro
got from a trip somewhere.

She scribbles intently,
sans leaning pad. Is done.
Thank you so much.
I drop the pen back to oblivion.

The young couple head off
like the muse and her keeper,
and I wonder whether it’s a good sign
she thought to ask me as I walked,

and whether she would bother
should the same occur again.