You too, rich enabler, have slid into the gray of memory
with no captions and no forwarding address
convincing us that most lives lived before the fall of such
are mere decorations of themselves and therefore waste;
that only in life lived 'round the corner, in vacuity,
is truth, (always what we define it) makeable, so valid,
anyway, and truly affordable.
Still and all, of legacies chary, we've got to pay the bills.
We are well-worn trails, drinking small, Dutch beers from
styrofoam cups one could have predicted. Now what is
Truth, ducky? And whose shall we moon-like, reflect-
decide after hours of thinking isn't? Gone enabler, I am
yours: was, wasn't, year by year, am and am not, taking and
forfeiting crystalline youth, so hail you, dear, and farewell.
Comments about this poem (Fa by Morgan Michaels )
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