Written for: Sunday Muse #78
His best work, he claims, is done outdoors
where charcoal clouds can burst, pouring
ice rain on us both. He is talented,
hard-working–a perfectionist as you can
see from his crumpled up papers in garbage
can, and on floor. And he talks about me.
The mist drifts in on this cold winter
night, snow still scarring grass. He doesn’t
get it. A skimpy rug is not enough
to keep my tired old bones and joints
warm. I leave photos of outdoor heating
options all over the house to no avail.
I am likely to freeze my tail off tonight.
That’s the trouble with creative people.
So intent on their work, they forget
everyone else around them.