poetry, at long last

At the end of the day, tired and beaten,
I want nothing more than to sit at someone's feet,
To curl up, writing, at your feet,
Writer's, speaker's tools, always at my hand,
At your feet. Where I sit, waiting,
Not, even, for acknowledgement, but for the Muse,
The only place I find her, away from distraction,
Stripped of the day-to-day,
At your feet.