Letter To My Muse

The last time you saw me

(and I you)

you watched me drive my

beater away from your

store window

-some

4 years ago

-well, old friend

you would not believe where

I am now;

in a small town

sitting bearded and in

my boxers

at a second hand table

in a half painted living room

floored by hideous orange carpet

trying to grip this pen with a

mutilated finger

(nailgun-

construction-

said fuck it-

quit-

again)

and now I’m a

part-time bartender

except

when the boss

needs a dishwasher

sometimes

on

Wednesday.