Last Poem
Today, while polishing off a Polish doughnut,
I decided to write my last poem, kind of like
last will and testament which I’ve perversely
done many times. Muse, less than amused,
has gone silent on this black unholy project,
pouts at any hint of ingratitude. Vows
silence then issues an audible curse.
Having taken the requisite antihistamine
to clear head, I let go all ambition/pretension,
circle doglike then settle to do this thing.
But first I dust desk and cull my collection
of purchased or purloined pens. Blue only.
The slaves bleed blue and must now retire,
even as their master must. I was poised
to pen free verses, ideas did ideate because
I was ever ready to receive out or even in-
spiration. Now I would appreciate any
morsel from beyond to end this vocation
in Limbo … but nothing is presenting.
So, nothing it is. I understand how
this business works. Bird droppings
whiten a nearby steeple where reportedly
a princess only once danced in heels
after bobbing for reject Eden apples.
Princess turned out to be transvestite
with issues and post-op inserts so,
adhering to logic, I sidle up and slip
her my last lines just to keep my word
and let go of all other words.