The Muse

Don’t believe the fairy perched on your shoulder,

reeking of lilies, her breath soft and pillow-like

on your ear.  She’s an imposter.  Your muse

is the bitch who never calls you back,

the woman whose face is ironed to the soft part

of your skull.   Her tongue is lodged deep

in some other fucker’s throat, or worse,

running laps around her lips while not talking

to you.  She’s a professional. She can’t be

something you have; she knows it; she’s lonely.  

She shovels art into your gut with longing glances. 

Every time you don’t touch, a poem jumps from your sleeve. 

She’s not like the other muses. 

She’s good.  She stays away.