Not My Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Who am I reading now: The long adventure
Of this thing,
Breathing in the goldfish at the movies,
And then you are there all tucked in and crenulated
Coming up and going down
phallacio for firemen and wresters, and other things
I can’t spell.
Oh, if we were in New Mexico, but then you would
Be in love with my brother in law;
And there should be some greater morality to this.
There should be a better way of saying this,
And the mythology which would give meaning to
Selling used cars;
But the sky is just blue, and tarped a deeper blue in
Crepuscule: You know when that is,
Because the airplanes are coming in, touching down,
And leaving off their trams of lost sheep,
And the ocean is roiling like unending pieces of
Eight, the cutthroat monies of little white towns that
Don’t exist anymore,
And fore some reason I am thinking of Michelle,
And I am thinking that she is reading this,
Even though I do not care, since she is not my muse.