My muse is not a muse
Though my not-a-muse does amuse
He swears off pants, though undies on head is
The perfect attire for a super hero
With very mild superpowers
Who cuts through bullshit
And index fingers with equal aplomb
A horizontal slice is his kryptonite.
My not-a-muse walks with a prayer in his heart
A jam donut in hand
And a Dad joke on the tip of his tongue
His footprints are words
His legacy left in ink and precision folding
Two skills to rule them all.
A rouged rhythmist
With beige bravado and TARDIS blue nails
My not-a-muse sorts the jigsaw
To help me construct 1000 pieces of blue sky
And hang a moon in it
Over the lighthouse in Piper’s Reach
My not-a-muse is a muse.
In everything but name.
Happy Birth Day, Adam.