The Muse Child

I was asked to write a poem,
As if I could make the muse child
Sit still, be quiet and obey.

If I try, the child will lower her eyes,
Pretending to be a good girl,
While wicked thoughts cloud her brow
And make her eyes sparkle.

Will she write a poem?
Maybe she will,
But not the poem expected.
No sonnet, no terza rima,
Not even a tiny haiku -
Rather something shapeless and irreverent,
Something that stands on its head
With its hat on its feet.

Never
Ever
Tell the muse
What to do.

If you do,
It's at your own risk.