The new poems’ titles
have become in these times
really, really strange.

Then again, you should
consider the source of them
and all he’s been through.

He finishes one,
then puzzles over its name.
Had one, once; briefly;

then it was gone — poof.
Shrugged then; caught another one.
It’s all the same to him —

call them, they won’t come
to him. It doesn’t matter.
Might as well bang on,

do the next one, then
do the next one after that.
He’s got a fever

and the only cure?
Bang on. Clang on. Do it up
until at last he’s done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T