Left-over onions.

The muse has flown
Her wings sticky
with laundery detergent
and candy wrappers

I have no memory of inspiration
only the marching
tick
tock
of the clock.

Punched in
Punched out
A drone
or a number.

Gone are the days of wonder
at the beauty
of ideas.

The muse has flown
like the cry from a newborn's lips
Like the anger
of a husband's antipathy.

I wonder
if her new home
smells like onions
that someone left out for two days.