Mistress Muse Has Left the Building

Theater, theater everywhere and not a jot to spare.
I awake to coffee spill and news-ful cancer’d glare.
And fire drill call to hurry up let’s go I’m gonna be late.
Flinging my body to stand from sleep, I jerk my gait.

O where is my morning muse with her golden hair?
She is cleaning the sick of crusted plates from night.
She is driving the pouting glum of stare to school late.
She is plumbing pieces of despair picked from market.

Theater, theater in the air and none too soon to bear.
I lunch on steering wheel carousel toast with shmear.
From work to work I go changing shoes at red lights.
And home again to gaze into supper’s dull delights.

O where is my afternoon muse with her flesh of dun?
She is quilting the patches of place to place and back.
She is feeding the abysmal depths of teenage hunger.
She is bickering the truth of decaying parental mind.

Theater, theater nowhere near the pleasure palace be.
I sleep in hollow cavern deep with laundered sheets.
And trace the catatonic trail of deeds that light leads.
To bed alone with fantasy flee’d I sweep seams free.

O where is my night late muse with her sleeping brow?
She is unloosing strands tied tight in day’s do and do.
She is fallowed dark in forms of wisp and trollop sims.
She is aloft in costumed stages of trim repair of dreams.


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