Complaint of the Muse: Take This Job and Shove It
You watched as I rode my bike for a butter stick,
watched from the choir as I returned to my pew
from the communion rail, counting the red tiles.
When I ran out of gas next to a garlic farm
and went down a furrow to the dark garage,
when I danced at my brother's wedding
stomping my boots without wasting one drop
of champagne, you were there. You loomed,
likening me to a diamond can opener
or a one-woman bevy of quail, but always
likening me. I bled and to you I was a page-turner,
wept and for you the mokihara bloomed red
on Mt. Waialeale. You don't even know
that Johnny PayCheck died last month,
whose obituary said he shot a man in an Ohio
watering hole, capitalized the "C" in his name
a few years later, and wrote three great songs,
one of which is remembered. What about your
obit? That you fed lambs with an eye-dropper?
Milked the Great Bear? I've had it up to here
with your marching band: I'm taking off
my spandex epaulettes. The next time I toss
my flaming baton, I'll be in another state
when it comes down. On your honeymoon
I'll be the aa, the glorious, trillion-spined
black lava slicing through your flip-flops.
Robert Thomas
5:17 PM
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