The muse hunt

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?