Little Orphan Anthony

Sometimes in the middle of a story
the characters get away from you
and though you meant to tell the tearful tale
of a motherless boy who does good
you end up in a thriller
where Little Orphan Anthony
kills Nazi mummies in Quebec.

Sometimes when writing your memoir
you recall an important anecdote
that doesn’t really fit your life story
(some incident of amphibian affection
or whatnot)
that must be excised
even though it totally explains
why you became an undersea adventurer
in the first place.

Sometimes you lose control
of the legends you lay.
Sometimes the fiction flies free.
Sometimes the plot gets rewritten
under your hand.
Sometimes the script gets flipped.

Sometimes the muse controls you.
Well, the muse controls you always,
but sometimes,
she allows you to see the strings
– or the stage markings
– or the teleprompter
– or the telepathic control inputs…

the muse just abandons you
in the middle of the damned piece.

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