I reached a point in my early thirties when I had to acknowledge myself a washed-up poet so I placed a classified ad in the Brandon Sun that read: Wanted, one muse. Verve and inspiration required. Ability to work obscure hours including weekends, pre-dawn. The following resume arrived by fax: One ex-military man, 52, applying for duty. Credentials include the capacity to sleep four hours a night. Physical stamina. Five years in the Airborne and a thumb tattoo to prove it. Excellent libido, abdominals. Once jumped from a Huey helicopter at 2,000 feet over Helena, Montana and landed on a cactus. Once jumped from a C130 Hercules in Baggotville, Quebec under red light in the middle of dark. Once jumped with 300 pounds of radio kit and a twisted chute that only deployed 100 feet before impact. Once jumped from a Lockheed C-141 Starlifter, great name. Once jumped from a helium blimp at 800 feet over England. Once served four months in military prison in Edmonton as a result of an incident with a machete. Twice married and twice divorced. Once tore a rotator cuff lifting a Christmas tree, still suffering the consequences. Enjoys Chardonnay. Inexperienced with poetry but willing to learn. After a rigorous and long-drawn interview, I signed him up because how could I not?