Coffee with poetry muse

Today again

as every morning

I invited for a coffee

the poetry muse

and these were

her last words

Your street sounds

as thousands chainsaws

For my hearing

that could be ruinous

I need my ears

so that the poets

could write about

the birds and the crickets

the wind and the cascades

I would be grateful

if you would never

invite me again

Now I sit with tears

my loyal companions

and I dream again

about my garden