LV sulky smokey Muse

My Muse is holed up in the bath tonight,
She's pouting and has slid the lock to say
She has no plans of turning on the light,
And thinks that I should take myself away.
I know that she is smoking in the dark,
For little wisps curl underneath the door,
Half hinted adjectives and nouns embark,
Then dissipate not far above the floor.
I only have their charred scent in my nose,
A bit like snow, a bit like summer dust,
They give me nothing even fit for prose,
But here I sit, and write something I must.
   So she will smolder, since she will not flame,
   And later I'll sneak in, and snake the drain.
 
 

XVIII muse 1

My Muse is not a fiery thing at all,
She's languid bordering on serpentine,
She drapes herself on divans, and while sprawled:
She keeps a running playlist of Al Green.
She's quite convinced that she's actually French,
And smokes too many long Spanish cigars,
Till I get headaches from the sticky stench,
And trying to translate her "c'est dommage"
When I complain that I have no ideas,
Whilst she just puffs and tries on evening gowns,
And shrugs one shoulder, just to make it clear
She's barely unconcerned with all my frowns.
    So to her expertise I must defer,
    And write a new quatorze all about her.