Muse

I’m struggling to write an opening line.

I cannot seem to get the words to fit

and everything I write just turns to shit;

my water isn’t turning into wine.

It may well be that all the wine I’ve drunk

these past few days has clotted up my ink.

Perhaps the booze is why today I stink

and why, instead of singing, I am sunk.

But then I think of you and suddenly

the volta happens right here in my heart

and, all at once, my ink is running free

and though, my darling, we are far apart,

it’s obvious at once this much is true:

that when I sing these days, I sing to you.