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.

4 thoughts on “the last poet in North America

  1. This is very funny to me. People I run into that don’t read poetry, like to say it is dead. These are the same people who don’t understand why I love live theater. The videos are so much more polished! These are the same people that stopped eating fat and gluten. Screw em. Crawl through a window and it it is locked also, set off all the alarms.

    • I do not believe that poetry is dead. I think there are lots of reasons that people believe it to be so, though. There’s lots of good work being produced today. And I love your words in this post:

      “…Screw em. Crawl through a window and it it is locked also, set off all the alarms.”


      Thank you for reading.

  2. Poetry survives despite the best efforts of the poets I have been reading lately to kill the form off entirely. I have no idea what the hell most of them are talking about although I guess they have some idea of a theme in their heads. Often beats me as to what that theme is. Maybe I’m just an incompetent reader of poetry. The likes of Billy Collins I can understand and get a good deal from. I have commented before about understanding and enjoying your poems.

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