(And) Purple: Prose

The raw sources of a pipefitter’s dream 

are simple: nuts & nipples & couplings & screws. 

And I’m just a poet in search of a muse, 

just a sea-starved seaman in need of a cruise.

A poet needs a muse to sweeten his songs, 

so won’t you play sugar if I play tongue?

Let me lap you up like a cup of cream.

Slyly she replied, Silver.

I own my own eye. I’m here to hear rhymes.

But actors need prompters to feed them their cues.

For rams to have lambs they first must have ewes.

Even sticks of dynamite require a fuse.

For to fill my verse up, rim, barrel, and bung,

let me borrow your breath to stuff my lungs.

I don’t want my songs to outsilence mimes.

But slow she answered me, Orange.

Silver she handed me – poets need gold.

And orange you gave me; it won’t balance my blues.

It’s like finding the Times with ads but no news
or going to church to worship the pews. 
Poet needs muse to keep his thoughts young. 

The muse is the clothesline on which are hung 

poet’s pants & fancies before they get cold.

O my silent unrhymed diamond……….

--Duane Vorhees