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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 59

At the Railway Station

In dusk, I sat to wait for my connection
with a strange feeling I knew the lady
who waited nearby, flowers on her hat
and wearing a dress with small bouquet prints.
Exhaustion showed well on a pretty face.
I tried to ignore her, careful not to stare.
Then, from her lap a large bag flopped! I rose
to retrieve it. It was heavy, stuffed with,
I couldn’t help noticing—ideas
and inspirations! Heavens, I thought—The Muse!
Lifting the bag I noticed some bruises
on the side of her face. “The slam,” she said.
“Other Muses don’t have to work so hard.”
And I sat down wordless, as she continued.
“You know there are those that if they don’t write
a poem a night, it’s death. They believe
they can snap their fingers and I’m there.” She looked
for something in her bag and then added,
“It’s not easy.” With a small comb she whisked
away at a strand of auburn hair then said,
“I don’t know why I’m doing this, I doubt
they care.” A rattle soon filled the night’s air.
Standing, she said, “Be well,” and with one hand held
her hat with the other that bag, and it seemed
she took flight toward the whistle that blew!

  Evie Ivy