This poem lived an extraordinary life,
but dislikes being in the past tense,
especially when a sunset achieves an undefined intensity
that it becomes the carafe that pours a good claret.
This poem hated itself for an edition,
unhappy with its font, its size, its style,
until it learned typesetting self-control
with the help of ten Quark Xpress Youtube tutorials.
This poem was not invited to join
the dirge sung over your departed wind-chimes
that lay dented out of tune
six feet under the backyard next to the dog’s bones.
This poem spat out the bookmark each night
before going to sleep.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
