NEW MUSE

My muse is ill and the very old muse

Who usually  fills in is on vacation;
I have just landed a rush order
For 1500 foot/boards of poetry
By next Thursday so the agency
Has sent me a temporary muse.
I think she is a golem.
Her long arms end in huge fists
Her iron grey eyes rarely blink.
Her forehead is hidden by bangs
But I suspect "emet" is written there
As with all the best-made golems.
When she speaks in her deep voice
An echo repeats her words
But with slight differences in tone
And odd hesitations. Her shadow
Is too small for her – ludicrously so.
We’ve put together three poems so far.
The first, about a stone lion who becomes
Mayor of Cincinnati, is amiable enough.
The second, about the sadness of pottery,
Drinks beer after beer and sleeps all day.
I'm not really sure what the third is about;
It seems to be wanted by the police.