Twice upon a time
I was a muse,
which let me tell you,
is a much better circumstance and label
than the coveted “wife” or “girlfriend.”
Remembering the days
where we sat in the tiny basement kitchen
probably after a lunchbreak rendezvous
and created things
on canvas, on paper, with symbols, with words,
listening to Tom Waits
letting God move through
his brush, my pen.
A bottomless fountain.
Our fountain of youth.
I’ve also sat across a date at Chilis
with nothing to talk about,
the mortgage and childcare on my mind,
thinking there must fucking be more
nights in the bar
coexisting along side one another
worrying about the words
instead of letting them roll of our tongues
over and over and over,
the way muses do.
Five times, my husband bought me flowers.
It was customary to whatever holiday
Hallmark and America told the husbands
this must be done.
For five straight days,
my painter made me into a flower,
putting colors and stamen
all over my body
as the tides led the breezes
into our Big Sur motel room,
where we talked and laughed
and cried for days.
I smiled the other day to see
his wife and precious newborn
so happy to have been the muse,