A BEAST IN VIEW

I ONLY HAVE THIS ONE OLD DRUNKEN TOOTHLESS MUSE She claims she writes all my poems. Eons old, ageless, I don’t know & she won’t tell But no matter how old she is She keeps trying to die young. I will always find her In the last bar in town Where people can actually talk to each other Over the noise of the music, With her only worry in the world That she might fall off her barstool And break her hip. Her constant diatribe about Health insurance, healthcare, Drug coverage and the government’s Vendetta against old people, in my estimation, Does not qualify as poetry. I used to buy her a beer once in a while In exchange for a bright simple lyric. Now she demands exotic concoctions Involving (for God’s sakes) Grenadine and Tequila, so expensive I could stay drunk for a week On what she consumes in a single night. Being a gentleman, I don’t remind her Of those nights long ago when I wooed her, When I was all erections and despair, Inspiration and malaise, And she would get giddy and reciprocal. We would skinny-dip in the river. I would fall face-first Into the polished stones And she would tell me the mists rising Over us at that moment Were the souls of all those who had Been baptized or drowned. Now she is only grouchy and political. She droops toward her glass, Hell, she tells me, write about the longing Of all small animals for an opposable thumb. I try to entertain her, but She gazes deep into a distance I can’t see In the mirror behind the bar. She says, Always look for the way Two people may touch hearts for years Through the tangled grate Of flaws and failures that afflict them With pettiness and despair. We watch the late news on TV. The pundit up there claims the death toll Has been relatively light. Unless you are one of the dead, she says. She tilts off her barstool, my Muse, My Ancient Muse, and wafts like a breeze Out the door of the bar.