he really sees the muse
she visits sometimes
lurking in the corner of
his classroom and he
prays to her like
Aphrodite in her pale
blue cardigan and
can’t quite catch his
breath when he glances
up from Shakespeare’s
Tempest just in time
to see her reaching
up to let her hair
come loose and fall
onto her shoulders like
a miracle of sunlight
splitting clouds, the words
just spill, she smiles
and he looks again
and finds his place
the perfume of her grace
is throbbing in his temples
how he loves the classics!
every word his lips form
are the prayers, the students
most, will never know she
came although a few
look up perplexed, amused
to see him lit, alive and
all for some old sonnet