No inspiration compels me

to pen these lissome lines.

I don’t get them through ESP

or galaxy of signs.

I harbor no hidden mystique,

at least no more than you.

I can’t claim Apollo’s physique

or dream in Xanadu.

Yet people are right to wonder

how words get on the page.

They don’t land there by some blunder.

The world is not a stage.

They come not from erudition

but something like a glitch.

It feels unlike intuition

and much more like an itch.

An itch that pounces suddenly

on palpitating flesh,

which will not quit ’till you decree

another Gilgamesh.

Yet it’s useless on my resume

and at the coffee-klatsch,

though I would not wish it away

no matter how I scratch.

Ziegler lives in Ewing. He has been published by the Times of Trenton and the Star-Ledger.

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