__
Song of the Soft-Shoe Sirens
Yes, go to your muses
if that's what you want. God rigged the gig
from the start, and we lost the singing prize
to those grisettes. They've got the edge
when it comes to equipment: a crystal pickup
and a boombox to die for. They've got all
the edges down. We can't believe they told you
our tongues shriek in short hooked beaks.
Cut the engines and listen.What we sing
is this. Decide for yourself. Then tell us
that you can tell our song from the one
your mother sang to your amazed father
before you were born, before he strapped on
his iron regalia and left for the trenches
and she put on her glasses to go back to her books,
their durable green spines already open on her desk.
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