there’s less and less to write about as they close in
I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, have water, canned
foods, candles, pliers, wires, bandages, toothpicks, catnip,
mousetraps, reading material, toilet paper, blankets, firearms,
–cigarettes, cigars, candy–
memories, regrets, divorce papers,
I have roach spray, wine, paperclips, last year’s
THIS COULD BE THE LAST POEM.
it could happen any moment, and, of course, I’ve considered and
d e a t h
but haven’t come up with much, really feel
rather foolish about everything, even
–just waiting is the worst.
nothing worse than waiting
just waiting. always hated to
wait. what’s there about writing that’s so
–like you’re waiting for me to finish this
I don’t know how to finish
so I won’t.
–so, if you happen to see this poem
in a magazine or a book
rip this page out
tear it up
and that’s the way this