My muse resides in my loins.

She looks up at me and smiles,

exploring the end of the night sky,

one constellation at a time.

She gets free room and board,

a satisfied tenant —never complains

if its too hot or cold.

A guide on the luminosity of love,

she’s like an unconditionally loving Mother

who can’t ever inspire me enough.

She’s been known to hang out

in my soul’s locker room,

comparing notes about

what I’m doing with my life.

They warned me about God’s

mean-spirited sense of humor—

like the time my friend, Leo,

an oncologist, died from cancer

after saving many lives

Even my muse and soul

thought they were being funny

when they hung my jockstrap

on a telephone wire with a note:

See if you can write a funny Haiku, Scribbler!

But I never leave home without her,

She’s my safety barrier in a toxic world—

and covers my blind spots like my Rav4.