Trixie Leaves Me In Fixes
My muse smirks at the fixes she leaves me in.
Sometimes I wake up in a swamp teeming with alligators.
Or chewed up and spit out by an angry owl, in an owl pellet.
Once she let me wake up with half an eye, the other had been devoured.
Trixie’s wild sense of humor seems to amuse other people, other poets even.
They send her fan mail and flowers, one sent her his boxer shorts.
I am the unappreciated Van Gogh of this relationship.
The next one who sends her a gift will receive an ear.
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