While I sit now in silence and repose,
Attending to the sounds in the surround,
Cicadas and bird chirping fill my doze
And, up above, the more insistent sound
Of soaring planes descending to runways,
Then hammering from carpenters nearby
With floors to lay and tall roof beams to raise,
As now a grinding garbage truck roars nigh—
In such a hubbub, how may I attend
To subtle promptings from my baffled Muse,
Receiving inspirations she might send,
Instead of being, as I now am, obtuse?
All this poor verse can do here is complain,
Hoping the Muse a better may ordain.