My muse needs a shave.

My muse has a tiny, tiny head,
full, though, of blood that sings,
blood that lines the eye.

He wears a ridiculous red hat,
color of knee scrapes,
of a sun dress Medusa
might wear on holiday.

He knows four or five chords in open E.

He always bends the same two strings.

My tiny-headed muse has a raspy voice,
from canned soup and cigarettes,
the feast of the minor, bickering gods.

David Wright