Fixedly gazing down
far far below at
that tiny
but familiar hand,
working away
at its notebook
page, stamp-sized;
the words far too small
to make out, though
if I had to guess
by the way I am feeling,
I would have to say
things aren’t going
so well. And I think
it is time now
to quit it,
and yet— it’s hard to tell. What if
my poem is so true, and
inalterably, marmoreally worthy
to live, regardless
of its fucked up
maker, and to take
a rightful place beside
the great tragic and magical
works of my heroes, those
dear tortured masters—
what the hell am I
saying? That is not
going to happen, and
so what? I’m not here
for that purpose, that’s
not my job, my fate. Mine’s
to be a small link,
to stand watch, to
keep this thing
going, and
hold a place
for him, when he comes.
The One, the next.
Who is on his way,
Don’t worry, may
be here already.
Oh come, secret master.
It has been too long. Come
poet, worthy
of the name.