Moonshine Muse

Another poem about writing a poem,
which means, my muse is no where to be found.
I’ve looked in the bottle of beer I’m drinking,
she’s not surfing the foamy waves of my thirst.

There are kids across the street
batting a ball over the sound of laughter,
but I don’t see her in the gray of dusk, nor
in the audience of grandparent eyes.

Stirred the stew of paper on my desk,
her carrot head didn’t roll to the top.
She’ll sashay her butt in around dawn, likely,
stinking of shine from the ladle of the moon.