Death of a Poet

Yesterday mortality knocked on my door, just another suit selling self-important literature. Jesus’ signature scrawled, haphazard ligatures sprawled. It was the gall of the whole thing that got to me.

Suddenly, I felt nauseated,
immediate correlation put
on pause by causation.

The suit broke my fall and called it gracious a collapse as he had ever seen. I suppose he’s solicited worse people than me. There’s a paradise, he cooed, that would pacify even poets, lift them from purgatory, promote them to common folk.

That sounds exquisite,
I allowed.

It’s your one-way
ticket out of
this ghost town, he
replied.

Are you
prepared to leave your
material gains behind?

I look ’round my cabin,
having always been adamant
about escaping,
but there’s
new revolution in
each breath,
a Bastille rioting in
my depths,

endless games of chess that
contain no kings.

Gaze on its tragic decor, unsure whether I hate the outside more. Tear up at broken bed springs, abysmal insulation. Inhospitable to most, but I’ve never been close to humanity anyway.

Sorry, I tell
death’s salesman,
but I haven’t failed in
my ways enough to come with
you yet.

‘sides, I’m not
dressed for the
cold.

I close the door
on his protests,
just a man
fulfilling
quotas

Ottawa to
Arizona, and so I sit
down to write him a
poem that will
travel just
as far.

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8 thoughts on “Death of a Poet

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