It Will Be a Humdinger
My last poem will be a humdinger, will include
a hummingbird in a ruby throated cowl
sipping satisfyingly in Caren’s Krutsinger’s
faerie garden - we’ll be sipping tea or something
stronger. Our muses are quite old by then,
and surely friends. One’s feigning on a daffodil.
The other’s wrinkling her teeny eyes - a scowl.
Instead of Chris Green’s good morning verse,
mine will say farewell to friends. I don’t think
I could cut it short as a monoku but if I’m going
fast I might need to be brief. Perhaps I’d be
silent, as a lightning bug on a Summer’s day —
I’d have to have my mouth
wired shut, my hands in casts (they’d talk too)
I might say, “toodle-loo,” or “ta-ta,” if not too trite.
I’d turn out the stars and the moon, say, “good night.”
7/19/2020
If this was my last poetry contest poem Poetry Contest
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