poetry critical

online poetry workshop


The hummingbirds have vanished,
and, too, the butterflies.
No rain
and the heat is heavy,
like summer in Morocco.
They found Jimmy's body
by the pool
yesterday after two
days in the sun.
Eulalie died
by the tub,
three days gone
before we missed her.
Like finding the bones
of cattle
at a dried-up pond.  This drought
will not relent.
So why is it still
so green?
I had promised
Eulalie a call,
but the phone just rang
and rang.  And Jimmy,
he was young.
He'd made a fortune;
hence, the pool.
I thought there would be time
for reunions
later on.
I asked Kelly if he'd play
"Old Man"
on his guitar Friday nite.  I listened
and sang along, remembering
that last long drive in LA
when I mourned
my lost youth
and wished
I could hurry things along.
And now I miss
old friends
but hang on, a
stubborn Pagan
in a world full
of Christians telling me
it's not too late
to be saved.
But it is too late.
Next time I'll call again.
until someone
picks up the phone.

11 Aug 08

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