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At The Mistaking Of A Muse
The Poet asked me to be his sole Muse;
but only if, then always, without shoes.
His need to see my bare, or stockinged, feet
seemed, to me, an intolerable conceit.
Too much of that entered his poetry,
suggesting something of perversity.
I thought that my refusal of compliance
proved self-respect more than just mere defiance.
Silent toward me, he versed his inspiration
from someone other. Three decades' duration
she gave him, shoeless in each poem he wrote
of her. Critics' agreement now ensures
his lasting literary fame . . . and hers;
while I receive not even one footnote.
I like this piece! The last line is great! It not only works as a pun but it also ties the entire piece together perfectly. Rae