Get Up Poet
Get Up Poet
Sick to death of adjectives
The poet died in boredom
Trying to fit railway ties
Neatly between tracks without
Any texture or color.
The rails were smooth and he
Couldn’t speak of their gleam in the sun
And the ties, brown and splintering.
Poor bard, he couldn’t say that either.
Ah! his tongue was tied to the tracks.
There they lay – the train tracks,
Plain as day, and he on them, dead
By a train of no particular description.
©Kathryn McL. Collins
April 16, 2004
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