A cup of Indian Malabar A buck and a half in the register A quarter in the tip jar that bought three "professional" or at least willing to show up poets saying pretty words full of CraftCraftCraft and that bought blank stares all those words and nothing was said except at the end a girl shooed a burb brat at the mic i introduced him with a sneer and now welcome our last victim on The Poet Is Right ready your tomatoes and on and on next victim was at least right he had just sung at a grandfather's funeral the guy had lived 97 years and they finished it off without a sermon out of 97 years no one could find anything worth saying The boy wanted to know why were they even there this man saw the rise and fall of the last great empire the death of that late gasp church ChristCommunismRationality and the end of meaning there was nothing to say except how life-like the corpse's skin looked 97 years dead and he looked pretty in his oak casket with CraftCraftCraft the organist plinked pretty notes and stared vacantly as the boy from the suburbs sang there was nothing to say except how pretty he sang all his relatives thought his voice was so pretty and he got mad wondering why are they here why are we here but he smiled and hugged his relatives just like he was supposed to and then said thank you and walked away walked away from the mic and all the empty sounds and pretty words full of CraftCraftCraft so many years invested and there was nothing to say except A cup of Indian Malabar A buck and a half in the register A quarter in the tip jar Tim Wood
Copyright 1995 Tim Wood.
Permission is granted to copy any of these poems within the confines
of the internet as long as the full text of the poem, the author's
name, copyright notice and email are included and you send an note to
tim_wood@datawranglers.com
letting the author know where the poem has travelled.
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