Where have all the muses gone
from loins
thighs
fingers
and sighs?
Stuck to the bottom of a
sticky oatmeal pot,
slab-hard meat locker,
stale smoke stairwell,
slimy greasy griddle,
slicing queasy toothache,
Sangria bottle drunk half down
no end in sight?
Grinning at the moon,
blue and ringed round by rainbows,
she returns a swoon.
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