It's Saturday morning, I should go to the gym.
Instead I sit down with a paper and pen,
short stories to write and poems to dream.
The muse is asleep, so I wait. I could scream.

Next blink it's mid-afternoon; the muse is a awake.
The pen cavorts over the page its partner,
like Ginger and Fred... or Rene and Renata?
Where went the muse, I recognise the signs,
of my own foolish rhyming; who wrote these lines??

I switch on a film, resigned to the chair,
the rest of the day, of time unaware.

Now it's Sunday, and I've slept half the morning,
there's snow on the ground, the birds are all hiding.
I look at yesterday's attempts at prose and rhyme,
and wade through the dross to find the sublime.
Some of this work does shine more than most,
and it saves this artist from feeling morose.

Soon it will be Monday; next week I will submit.
Will a publisher see my great wit,
or perhaps only half. Dare I hope for a hit?