If This Was My Last Poem
If this was my last
poem, I should suffer
immeasurably.
I’d wake
late in the day-
there’d be nothing
in the early light
of collective awakening
to record in cursive letters.
I’d eventually lose
my sight
for irony and ecstasy
in the mundane, then
life would be perfectly
uninteresting.
The ream of used printer paper
recycled for blotted thoughts
would gather dust
and no more dreams.
This pen would be left
in an old coffee mug,
standing nib-up
until its ink dried. When
taken later to quickly scribble
an address or number
it would grate
angrily against
the grain.
I’d let my wrist
loose and jerk
the pen and the air
would be moved
to whip me.
I’d feel shame
for once
I had used this pen
as a whip.
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