To A Certain Poet

 

                       He is obsessed with birth

                       And the passage of time,

                       A lost youth that will never return,

                       Old age and death

                       That will surely come.

                       Life holds, alas, no secrets from him,

                       The legend has been debunked,

                       The hangover has already begun.

 

                       Stripped of all illusions,

                       As naked as he came,

                       He marches to a quick step

                       With a shuffling gait

                       To the final oven,

                       For the ultimate shower,

                       And up above, the caroling angel

                       Awaits, to enfold him in his choir,

                       Too late to tell him, even then,

                       His voice is flat. He cannot sing.

 

  

                                                           Jack Mashman