The Death Of Poetry Poem by Lori Boulard

You would not read it in the papers.
Certainly not headline news, what with
wars raging and ratings slipping.
Never mind the obituaries; after all,
who among us would dare attempt it?
I heard the funeral was tasteful,
though I did not attend. In fact, few
did. Sad though not surprising
given the family is dead and friends
too far-flung for commuting such a distance.

So, proper eulogies given and dirt smoothed
neatly, those who survive must learn
to go on. Pack away the volumes of dog-eared
intellect and remind ourselves it is over.
Resign to ritual planting of new seeds-
new flowers to harken a season's birth.
Nurse them with cleansing rain and views
of history in painted constellations.
Give them names like sweet William and thyme;
sounds that linger like ginger on the tongue.