A Pallbearer for a Dead Poem

The eulogy is short.

I thought I was invited as a spectator.

I expected no audience participation

on my part,

but they asked me to be a pallbearer.

I politely declined.

but they refused my refusal, insisting

that I couldn’t stand on the side lines.

“You murdered the poem, now take it

to its grave.”

No one expects a dead poem to be

so heavy, laden with sour metaphor,

unnecessary dialogue, and lack luster

subjects.

But I lift with the rest, shouldering

the blame, all the while thinking:

“You did this. You even dug the plot.”

My heart is just as heavy during the

slow stumble to the hearse.

But I can't cry.

A murderer cannot cry,

she closes her moleskin and forgets.

And if she has enough gall, she turns

the page and starts the killing all over

with the witless stroke of her pen.

I load it up and shove it away expecting

a thank you for my services.

I am met with silence.