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… although I find you quite amusing.
My muse is my receding hairline,
my sister’s pre-cancerous, auto-immune deficiency syndrome.
My muse is wondering why my wife loves me:
a cardboard sign climbing through thunderclouds,
and eight contemporary poets loved by a contemporary poet.
You are not my muse
… okay,
maybe you are my muse, too.
I admit it
… although I find that quite amusing.