No sale

Why are poems always sad?
Dads are sad when kids grow up,
the kids are sad when summer ends,
Mom got married far too young
and is sucking down the valium.

Youth’s a thing that will not last
(did I just make that up?),
autumn leaves are nice but sad
Grandma’s sad but nice,
but not as nice as sad.

It’s nearly always raining,
in the little town of Wistful
(sidewalks paved with wist),
where the poet spent a happy youth
but now he just gets pissed
(I mean inspired).

The everyday, the dread,
the drive to work
the drive to school
the drive to Beachy Head.

Then the sucker punch
— the love-bag —
the bleeding human heart.

And always somewhere, not far off,
some soppy funeral bell.
Is it really any wonder
that poetry doesn’t sell?


 

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