They are starting to go now,
Like the rockstars;
A bunch checked out early,
Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club
But a spike on the graph, for sure.
And now, we are starting to drop.
Turds from an elephant’s ass
Is the only metaphor that comes to me.

This week, another one.
Last week too.
It doesn’t seem to matter,
The fire and the ice both end.
Wind has forgotten how to blow
In Chicago and everywhere.
I wonder at next.
I look at the actuaries’ lists.
I know I’m on there somewhere.
Probably pretty soon.

I love who is still in this tent
With me.
Let me say that deliberately.
But the sense of this era for me
seems to be a growing choice
Between mourning
Or being mourned.

If you are reading this
And you are a poet,
Let it serve as a cautionary tale.

If you are reading this
And you are not a poet,
I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu.
Maybe read this poem again in a few years.

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