A Sort of Homecoming

by Tracey Gratch

Mid thread-bare verse, I hear the door,
it’s four AM, I should ignore.
I let her in — no questions asked,
just grateful she’s returned, unmasked.

I offer tea or wine as she
laughs at my page and looks through me.
I give a lame apology —
I blame it on, — ontology,

and, other things — I’m studying
(an infidel, I’m stuttering).
Dismissing me, I’ve stoked her ire,
forgiving me, she starts the lyre —

I’m captivated — some sweet spell —
A lifeline out from poet’s hell.


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