flute in hand,
poring over her shelves,
seeking something diaphanous
in an outfit,
hears the cry of a blocked poet.
Racing to the paper-strewn study
on wings of thought,
she diagnoses instantly,
“Comma, not semicolon!”
And departs, still sans outfit,
a fleeting vision, and there is heard
her faint, elegaic toot
of farewell.
This article appears in Albert and the Baskets.