So, I asked the postman to take this letter to my muse…

(It is afternoon, and LAURA stands on her porch, apparently deep in conversation with the POSTMAN. She is wearing a SCARF, although it is springtime and looks mildly irritated. If her irritation is mild, the POSTMAN looks as if he would like to borrow her SCARF and string himself up from the gutter.)

POSTMAN: (Bemused) So lady, where was it you said this letter's goin' to?

LAURA: (As if talking to a deaf five-year-old) To my muse, of course.

POSTMAN: (Humoring her) Yes, and where does this "muse" of yours live?

LAURA: (Rather dreamily) The place where all ideas come from, that vague, abstract land of the mind where inspiration constantly goes in and out of focus like one of those ambiguous hidden pictures…

POSTMAN: Uh-uh. You have an address for that?

LAURA: (Incensed) Of course I don't have an address for that, you pedantic ignoramus! My art knows no petty limitation of time or space or place!

POSTMAN: Gee, take a chill pill, will ya? If I'm going to take that letter of yours anywhere, I'm gonna need an address.

LAURA: (Sighs dramatically) I understand. I'm dreadfully sorry. I'm really not angry with you; you see, my muse has been giving me quite a lot of trouble lately. I just can't seem to reach her in the domain of poetry, these days. So, I've been writing all this free verse, which often helps me reach her. I intend to send it to her to ask for directions and tell her to pass stricter immigration restrictions on clichés down there.

POSTMAN: Huh? (Pauses) Okay, so try again to explain to me where this place o' yours is?

LAURA: (Agitated) That's just it… I can't explain where it is! A poet just knows! A poet writes to explain to herself and the world where the poem came from! Don't you get it, dammit?

(The POSTMAN wipes drool from his face, looks around nervously for a second, and then makes a mad grab for the SCARF.)