Start of July 17 Column

My Muse Moved Out

My muse moved out in the middle of the night. She left no forwarding address. She lived with me for 18 months: the average length of my pre-Vicki relationships (Vicki and I passed that milestone 42 years ago). Her parting gift to me: Paul Sings Paul (a forthcoming album). I don’t expect to see her again; Vicki says she’ll call if she wants to see me again. I don’t have her number, so I can’t call her.

I won’t miss the 4 a.m. wakeup calls, as she drove me to the keyboard. I will miss the artistic output. People (and entities) come into our lives, sometimes for a season and a reason. I’m not sure why she came, why she left, or whether she’ll be back. But the only constant is change, so I accept her absence.

My parting gift to her is the poem I once wrote about her:

My muse dropped in.
While I slept.
She left this poem.
And then she left.

Her golden horse she rode away.
I think she’ll be back some day
And when she comes for goodness sake.
I hope she’ll come when I’m awake.


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