the muse recovered

I have a muse
and it took me awhile
but i found her
and she's here now
and promised to stick around
for this sitcom i call my life.
I put an ad in the paper
$20 for a spread
i had to be choosy
so this is how it read:

writer seeking muse
on call day or night
whispering in my ear
highly desired
outside beauty optional
inside beauty required

The first one to apply
was smart and quirky
made me feel bonafide
like a real author
mabye be on letterman
or larry king
but she wanted it to be
"all about her,"
it was a short lived fling.

The second one wore high heels
with jeans, which i totally dig
but apparently i'm not the only one
and she left me for another
with a publishing gig.

The third one was too needy
talked about how we'd be together
forever
always wanted to crawl into my lap
and stare into my eyes which
creeped me out after awhile
she tried to get inside my head.

The fourth one was a cutter
convinced that writing born from pain
was the only way to the truth
but i hid her knives
gave her a spoon instead.

The fifth one thought
alcohol-induced ramblings
would put us on the map
with bukowski and kerouac
but i just can't hold my liquor.

The sixth one didn't quite understand
i didn't want to be a rambling man
and she filled my journal with useless crap
so i cut and i cut
refusing to paste it back.

The seventh one always wanted to talk about
politics and picket lines
and how the state of the union is unrefined
but i'm more interested in simpler things
like coffee beans and the taste of whip cream.

The eight one wore black all the time
and talked of bleeding roses and dark red wine
with midnight dances in the park
but i just couldn't see myself frolicing with trees
after dark.

But then, she came along
i knew the moment i saw her she was the one
she knew just what to do
because i had composed three poems
before we were through with the interview
she just sat there and smiled
for she had fulfilled her purpose, too.