To An Old Muse

You were like a nymph on the dance floor,
so pink, orange and friendly,
and with such admiration for my gray persona.
I should have asked you to dance
but the chance, soon passed,
would never come again
for you ran so fast, so very fast,
you were soon the muse of all the state
and would not hear of love or fate,
though you often gave me the favor
of your mermaid murmurs on the telephone
and would like to hear me talk
of a poor Irish orphan,
full of fiery ambition,
who would become President Jackson.
And though you would not be my lady,
I could still be your knight
and so I drew my sword to write
your praises for the morning paper.
But my song was of little avail
for such an ocean seperated our fates;
your future was a very real waiting ship
while my brave new armada
was but the steam that filled a few coffeehouses
mornings and afternoons,
expanding my learning of the old world
when surely I should have been studying algebra.
And now I wait in this Fall town,
where the ravens drop their acorn breakfasts to dodge the morning commuters;
I wait for a call from sunny Arizona
to again give my pen that pinch of fairy dust.