Menage a Trois

Ménage a Trois




Eugene Onegin

Takes the screen again,

His solo echoing.

Mr. Bonkers curls on the sofa.

His purr ripples through

The stops in the aria.

He curls and purrs,

A furry nautilus of contentment.

The poet on the tube

Is luckless, ladyless.

My muse, Brigit, smiles behind me.

“Who needs it?” she says.

“It’s merely flesh and blood,

Soon to be dust.

But it’s a good show.

Keep watching.” Mr. Bonkers

Sticks one white-socked leg

Straight up like a baton.

Act two ends: death and regrets.

Guilt trebles my spine

Because this classic triangle

Is so telling. The muse

Pokes me in a rib and says,

“Pay attention. The poet loses

As always. He’s hopeless.”

I stretch, stroke Mr. B.

Brigit scowls. But I

Love this high tension:

Mr. Bonkers, Brigit, and me.



1982-1985

For a male poet, his woman is his muse; or, for a female poet, her man is her muse; or, for a gender-challenged poet, the significant other is the muse.  After several failed flesh-and-blood relationships, I was left with the muse.
 
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