I reached a point in my early

thirties when I had to acknowledge

myself a washed-up poet so

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