A mouse, like the muse
is trapped on stage.
Poetry is read to an audience
largely assembled for Nirvana.
The sweat and toil of the poet
go unnoticed in the evening banter.
The room is filled with
open minds and closed definitions.
No one is driving a point hard.
But even a slight pressure of doubt
could prick the balloons into a burst.
Questions raised, fall on deaf ears
and there is a point made
about the point of view.
The poet's eyes scurry
end to end, across the room.
The mouse moves from gap to gap
entertaining a discerning eye and the muse
sits like a bride, awaiting judgment.