Maybe in a Hundred Years
errol miller
No longer
will I need poetry
the solace of it
a robot bird will squat
on the bridge of my nose
and talk with me, whimpering
whispering ballads of sad cafes
the wind, the rain, the road
to Shangri-La littered with maiden-mucuc
and rejection, I am listening
to churning pistons
stalled Earth-Machines
loading the Starship with time capsules
I am listening to wise men pray
their pockets filled with red clay
and overdue bills, at
the crossing, at the dotted line
an army of ants unloading baggage
watching them work I recalled
fireflies at Twilight
and stories never written
kicking off my shoes
a kiln powered by pine knots pulsated
shredding the ragged remnants of my poetry
to work all your life for recognition
I thought, closing an important era
as dogs barked and a man
in a pastel doorway smiled.
