Practice

My Muse arrived with floury hands,
Her apron tight around her neck,
But loose around her foodie waist –
An actual superhero cape,
Which has a use, though worn reversed.
She dusted off her latest fight,
And X-rayed me with laser sight,
To ask me simply, “How’re the lines?”

I showed her furrowed ploughing marks
Which started straight, but went awry,
Like oxen still unsure of yokes,
Unsure of bamboo sticks on hinds.
“Another day of shittiness?”
“Another day of shittiness.”

“Remind me why you daily write?”
She teethed the dough beneath her nail.
“Umm. Practice promises progress.”
She teethed the nail to rip it out.
“You mean you’re getting better at
The thing you practise everyday?”
I nodded, frowned at ugly nails.
“And if you daily write this bad,
You’ll get real good at writing bad?”

“You burned the rotis yet again?”

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