Ode to Molly

Red curly hair, legs crossed at her knees

leaning slightly forward the better to see

(and not on a chair but sitting in air)

Molly, my muse, smiles down at me.

Her fresh young face spotted with freckles

 recently displaced my old dictator

(who dressed in black and always standing)

would shout and holler “More!  More! “

But little Molly nothing demands

except that each day

for only one hour

we sit together to do what we can.

She doesn’t ask

I write with perfection,

say something new  

or have wit and wisdom.

I write away be it silly or serious

whatever comes forth from the tips of my fingers.

And, Molly, my muse, while painting her nails

looks over my shoulder slightly amused.