I went to the muse market
bought myself a bucket of words;
just a pail full of random nouns,
verbs, adjectives, pronouns and such.
Too cheap to purchase any rhyme or reason
(too expensive and out of season),
struggled home with my overflowing bucket
balanced on my hip, splish-splashing
similes and metaphors all along my path.
Arrived home just before sunset
and placed my now half-empty bucket
in the darkened corner, far from the open
flame of inspiration.
It sat there, settling, growing cold.
Later that night, I took a ladle, dipped
me a spoonful of now soggy words
carefully pouring them upon the
withered sheet of paper splayed across
my wooden desk.
I sponged off the excess dribble and
let the rest dry freely in the night air
The next morning, I rolled up the paper
tied it with a black ribbon
and sent it to my editor
He sent it back the following week
now tied with a red ribbon,
a matchstick tucked neatly beneath the bow,
both attached to a bigger bucket.