Art by Cindy Duhe
Waiting For Calliope

Awakened by a silence that doesn't
sound quite right, like the quiet calm
of a nuclear winter or the stunned shock
of the post-assassination crowd,
so I lie there under the dark, heart
crawling pupils pounding skin dilating,
waiting for the sign, and when I hear
the subtle scrape of two molecules
rubbing me the wrong way I leap into action,
grabbing the Louisville Slugger from
under the bed and I come out swinging,
tasting the satisfying feedback of wood
to flesh again and again until I collapse
against the wall and flick on the switch
with trembling fingers only to find
my muse, crumpled in a gossamer heap,
battered bruised and bleeding from the eyes
like a western Kansas Virgin Mary.

John Whitted


More Poetry by John Whitted, Featured Poet

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