Inspiration

 

The spirits circled high above the house

And dropped surprising words like fennel seed.

Never before, he thought, and could not write

Fast enough to keep up. There slipped away

An observation on the rites of men

With women and a pun on Little John,

And still the spirits strewed the house with verbs

He did not know he knew, until, at last,

He called it finished, although it couldn’t be;

And then the tutelary angels left

For Calgary, by typo drawn away.

Not one agreed to read a word he wrote.