Coming in from the Rain


I sit writing at my desk
so blocked my hand is tongue-tied
useless on the page
large drops hammering my tin roof.

She enters, door gusting open
under horizontal barrage, "I couldn't," 
she blurts, "go any farther
without my scuba gear," laughs.

I rise, take her suitcase,
close the door, "my tanks are empty
but come in and warm yourself."
I give the fire a stoke, start a pot of tea.

"My name is Helena Roy," she says,
"I've been staying at the Rainbow.
Through the grapevine I heard
you have been waiting for me."

Helena Roy, I thought, how many ships
have you launched? She laughs,
"I'm soaked through - aren't you going
to offer me some dry clothes?"

Soon she is wearing my large white
shirt, which falls modestly to her knees,
me rubbing her cold feet back to life,
warming myself in the process.

After a while my hands regain their
feeling, I ask her for a kiss.
She says "I'm a muse meant
to inspire your art and not your heart;

when I was back in goddess school
at Stanford way out west,
I learned the secret of my trade,
a hungry, hungry dog hunts best." 



		(First published in "Doors" (The Writers' Journal) - 2025)