The Muse of Ocean Springs, Mississippi

People who are like waves, rising and falling.

They imitate each other. People who get lost

When they ride with other people. They can’t

Concentrate or concentrate too long on this ad

Of a cowgirl fading into the concrete blocks

Of a standing wall. It freezes them. They’re stuck

In limbo with no clue where they’re not until

A buddy says hey! They always have a buddy

Going hey hey. Trouble being he’s a wave too

With no idea where he’s headed. My goddess

Felicity says this on our Tuesday morning drive

To Dunkin’ Donuts like it’s coming to her all at once,

But when she sees the furrow above my eyes,

Says No, you silly man, not you. Anyway, people

Like that, the wave people, they’re swell. Most

Wouldn’t hurt leukemia. Only they need blankies,

Like their mamas cut the feed too soon, and she knows,

She says she’s worked with scads of poets like that—

There are good things about them. They don’t mind

In the least if you take the wheel, but need a lot

Of reassurance. They do not make good designated

Drivers. Not that she seeks them in particular unless

They have muscular arms, in which case they make

Excellent office assistants. Not like they’re reprobates

Or poltroons. They stick to their guns. Besides,

Christ, she’s not looking for Dante Alighieri—

That stare then, like a hawk, blunt, frozen, oblique—

And then she takes my pen, dips it in ink, and says

You okay shug? You look sort of squandered

And pinched, like maybe your feet was killing you.