the last poet in North America

I heard on the evening news
that the last remaining poet
in North America
had gone missing
after losing his key
and locking himself out
and they showed a shadowy
and unidentifiable figure
taken from a seventh floor vantage
— a tortured, lost soul
wandering at 3AM —
in the East Village
the poor penniless bastard
slumping along
with a messenger bag
slung over his left shoulder
presumably packed with
unfinished verse
his head presumably packed with
unfinished verse
not to mention deep concerns
for his cat, Winslow
his angelfish, Clyde
his three ex-wives
and his first edition copy
— of a volume of rhyming verse
by Sara Teasdale
but my friend Alicia says
I am being presumptuous
in assuming that the last poet
in North America is male
and that she is certain
that her friend Cali
a fine poet who is on
a year long sabbatical
in the Dominican Republic
who despises despotic rulers
and is a champion of human rights
and an author of neglected verse
is the last true poet in North America
and if she returns
(a matter up for discussion)
it will be on her terms.