Wish You Were Here (Poetry)

We have a mixed relationship —
I’m faithful, you’re a trifle flip,
shun all responsibility,
just let it fall, full-square, on me.

No strings; no contract; nothing set;
we drift along, my needs ill-met
by casual calls — you flit and flounce
at random — always unannounced.

Impetuous and fickle sprite,
you nudge me in the fretful night
then, as I fumble for a pen,
you shrug and disappear again.

I face the empty page alone,
abandoned in the twilight zone
of thoughts I can’t translate to words
that, doomed to silence, die unheard.

I’m miserable without you, Muse,
I play Mussorgsky, sing the blues
and wait like some poor lovelorn swain
for you to show your form again.

I am the ghost who haunts myself;
a languisher on some sad shelf;
a victim of your wild caprice,
but ever-hopeful of release.

Whole weeks have passed and not a sniff,
I’m teetering upon the cliff
of sheer despair, fairweather friend,
uncertain to the bitter end.

Your postcard brought three clichéd lines —
a cruise in literary climes
too hot for me (a lukewarm hack).
No hint of when you’re coming back.

In limbo, then, my ideas float
like aliens that spawn and bloat,
unlikely in their tepid sea —
too cool for you, too deep for me.

I’ll settle for more humdrum stuff —
ignore high Art’s affected fluff —
I’ll find some other craft to do
and hardly ever dream of you.