Dénouement

Muse has clocked off for the last time,
Bundy card Molotoved.
He does no slog here,
performs no function.

Muse has left the building,
its windows now empty eye sockets:
wind soughing past toothsome shards,
rodents surfing the scaffold-bones.

Muse has slipped off the streets
like oil-film after the first good rains —
the gamine GPS stumbles
and even his car seems cruel, hollow, dead.

Muse has scarpered from the e-waves
yet my hard-drive still clicks and chatters, thinking.
Each day with Muse spanned a humdrum decade —
so there’s much material left.