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The Muse I Once Had

Wrapped inside the cages of hedonistic
Byways, looking for the hemlock of the anniversary one
Last time,
At least I can say I kissed her lips and held on to
Her, and took her out into the waves
Even though she could not swim: which made all of the tourists
Watch us even more;
And we made love: and we made love in almost a year
Of adultery,
But all throughout those fiery nights, the souls of my
Words ran lonely-
And it got colder as more of the years approached:
She went back to him, sated and bent and subtle like
Soft wood I had imprinted with my telephone number:
And her two children, waiting for fireworks-
Hungry as rabbits- she said she was not a good mother,
But she would not leave them- A Mexican woman,
Her husband exhibiting entire control over her,
Except for with me- for this last year,
And the times we made love- now she is a lion,
A rose content to be a in a cage- and when I see her mother
Cleaning the windows of the Italian restaurant
Along Okeechobee Boulevard- working without
A smile, bent and overweight- I think of the muse I once had,
And I think that must be her.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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