There are poems
Who LEAVE me
Feeling cornered
Like at a party with
That one guy who
Won’t stop talking
AS IF thinking aloud
And hoping that I
Will somehow make
The point for him
like the CONTRAST
Between Lincoln at
Gettysburg and THE
GUY who talked for
Three hours before
Him. I w-e-n-t for
Popcorn and missed
The Lincoln. Came
Back And everyone
Was Gone, THE field
Littered with trash
And loose Papers
blowing in the wind
And my car with a
F*****g ticket. My
WAR story. LOOK
-ING back over my
Shoulder at the
Poems I wrote I
Wonder h-h-how
many Of them will
betray Me? Like the
snappy Comeback I
worked On for 18
years BEFORE I got
It just righ. Crap it
All I Forgot to dot
the T While you were
Trying to CROSS
the me. There are
poems who are
empty ///// full of
words looking for
someone to fill them
For a place to be
buried. When this
is over and the dead
have been raised
[no break]
at the last day my
poems will Return
here again like the
fallen ghosts of
YOUR thrift store
underwear drawer
to hear LINCOLN
Sum them all up
In a few #####
And silence their
Chattering forever
Time will stop AND
Everyone will turn
An accusing glare
On me. The field
Is littered with
Trash only this
TIME I stopped
And picked up a
scrap of paper as
it blew past and
found A copy of
this here POEM.