By Prospero Dae
Buenos Aires, 1989.
I stood on a platform in Retiro Station looking up at the vaulted ceiling, when a flock of mustard-breasted birds broke the chapel-like silence so fully enveloping me. But soon she would arrive as though stepping off a cloud—tall in a sleeveless dress as black as a bear’s nose, her fey hand trying to keep in place a red-ribboned hat—and in the crush I would lose sight of her, and yet she would suddenly be in my loving arms; but my muse failed to show up, again, and I was destined to have another unproductive day.
She was probably the wrong Muse for you…maybe Calliope or Terpsichore…but you don’t need a muse of Epics or Dancing; you need a muse of Poetic Flash Fiction. I hope you searched, and found, a new one. A lovely—full of longing—piece.
Maybe the Muse was too gorgeous. A hint of frumpiness in a frock could possibly have begun something beautiful…
That was 1989 and this is now. You won!
Ah, Prospero, you have perfectly described some of my “unproductive days”. Thank goodness, I don’t have very many of them! Good job.
what an exciting place to meet your Muse and how very appealing she sounds! And I’m quite certain she is with you wherever you go 🙂