JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

A poem died yesterday

after a prolonged illness

despite surgery,

kind words of passers by,

pints of transfusions

splints, stents and other

devices

 

Somehow I knew

this was coming,

each visit its pallor

increased—artificially lighted

workshops and

unshaven reflections

in rest room mirrors

combined to leach

the blood of the real world

from its veins

 

In the end

it gave up, resigned,

tiles thrown back into box

no apologies

just another old scribble

passing into the mist

 

With only the barest whisper

of an epitaph, afterthought

or punch line