The skateboard king twirls his own
tenuous tricks to the sound of
one hand clapping alone
for his stupendous trove.
Achilles looked on with envy
cursing the arrow in his heel.
Paris smiled silently
at the shimmering seal.
The King’s last one slick snare
failed and bailed out to one
bright Pleiades in mid-day flare.
All clapping was finally done.
The poet has died, no more songs to sing.
No more profound words to write in
the tattered coffee stained notebook
with a worn out pencil he took.
He died last week a month ago,
a year or millennium so,
How did he live, how did he die?
Many are those who wonder why.
Had he written too much sad verse?
Were there no more poor rhymes to curse?
Did drugs take that deft mind?
Too many words he could not find?
No more, no more words of prayer.
No more words for high ladies fair.
No more words of life, death and love.
No more cooing songs of the dove.
Do all the poor poets who die alone?
Each now sit on a golden throne?
Do they rhyme in heaven or hell?
There are none to come back to tell.