To Write Regret

I saw my muse today
and she filled me with regret.
She appeared in the bar
where I sat reading
and drinking alone.
I stared, I admit.
I know she knew I was there
though she never glanced at me
I watched her as she whispered
to her companion
who looked right at me then
(I met my muse a week ago
She filled me with regret
When I asked about her life
and talked about myself instead.
Had I listened to her then
would she have filled me up
with a smokey sky that turns the sun
a burnished bronze?)
Had I sat, uninvited at her table today
and asked to talk about herself
would she have thought of me
as worthy to inspire
with warblers, lapping waves, silhouette
or would she fill me
with derision and regret.