The Last Poem I Will Ever Write
Today is the day I will let it all go.
by Lori Boulard
Pages of words, awkward
and odd, will cease
to consume my valuable time.
Real life awaits- the only true poem
I head to the gym, parking right up
front by the door. After all, I mean
it this time. I climb on a treadmill.
Billy Collins and Robert Frost,
having been left home, collect
measurable dust and curse
my absence. I am sure of it.
I peruse the offered reading-
Forbes, too dry, Vogue, please.
I settle on Rolling Stone.
As my pace quickens, so too
does my speed of flipping
the giant pages. Glossy faces
and tattooed pectorals glare at me
boldly. Their defiant look
tells of those more defined
in their purpose in life.
Their glittering ears
and uncommon extras declare
validation, success, and more
than limited fame.
I should have learned to play the guitar.
I reach the end not a moment too soon,
shower, change and head outside.
It is partly cloudy, but I see sun eyes
and cloud hands playing
hide and seek with my moods.
Is that a metaphor? Too cliché?
I leadfoot it home to the safety
I know, my mind swirling
with hunger for a deeper
distraction. Perhaps I will scale
the Great Wall of China,
ski the Alps or hunt
pearls in the deep. I log on to
see that the shortest of these
means a ten hour flight.
The coffee is ready and my muscles are sore.
Maybe I'll just write a poem about it.
I slump in my chair and glance over
at Collins. I'm sure I see him smirk
beneath the dust.