the baby in the lap of the poet

see this child
climbing into my
lap this morning
just when the
muse flew in
on her wing

one an angel
in blond pigtails
and a runny nose
the other
a capricious
sprite

i'd grabbed
my pen and pad
just then
feeling the
flutter of
wing

when the child
- guided by her
own covert specter -
crossed the room
and placed a hand
on my knee

the pen falls to
child and to home
to wife, to pet
to lovemaking
to sleep
to prayer

some poets
-most all-
dogged by the
same passions,
pursued by the
same demons

are capable
of closing a
door to all
else and
cupping
the muse

till she is
properly
pinned
and the poet
is briefly
satiated

and would
find my
deference
to the baby
a weakness
of a man

uncommitted
to his art
the highest
calling of all
they would say
i was a traitor

but the baby
in my lap
whose hands
have soiled
my pant legs
with chocolate

and whose
theft of a pen
made errant marks
in my journal
one day
while i was away

and whose
nose drips
down into her
mouth as
she tries
new words

will not be
on my knee
in another day
perhaps three
this poet
knows not

and the foundations
of my kingdom
will collapse
under the weight
of time
and be dissolved

by the seas
of human
afflictions
and familial
passings and
all those hot winds

the baby on the
knee will
not wait
but the child muse
will wing
again

and i
will always
have words
and words
and words
and words

the baby
climbed
down and
the muse
evaporated
into the air

i write
this while she
sleeps
and the poets
sleep in
their books

and my lover
is away
and the pets
wag
and the rain
falls outside