My Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They get married in their Winnebago’s
And drive looking across the pumpkin fields:
In the sublime sunlight of the Midwest
They open up the buttons of
Their chests- and they drive through the golden
Maize, never thinking of what lies beneath them in a daze:
All of Mexico and her butterflies
Stripped naked for the forked tongues of serpents
And the yellow gold- browned skinned goddesses just
Doing what they were told
While I loved you waltzing in a catastrophic promenade,
And her virtues splintered outwards from the church
Of her inner church- and, yes, she became
The anatomy of my soul;
As she walked across the embers of my old high school,
The waves gossiping enviously
Knowing that they were not as beautiful as she was- my muse.