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.