The Muse

wakes me, 3 a.m., says
"pick up your pen and
write." O why
can't I have a muse who
sleeps at night?
"Alright," I say, roll over, sit up, and
take pen in hand: the paper
looks innocent enough--
but isn't; the pen is a stabbing
instrument with envenomed tip;
I think about whom to put it to--
maybe
you.