Sliding my hand along the spines of their
works arraigned for my keen inspection,
I so wish these poets are dead. So that
somebody, an arduous fan perhaps,
collects all the work and compresses it
into a neat boxy volume, hardcover is fine,
where the poet's voice lays preserved as
a mummy of a godly king of ancient Egypt
and whispers to me when all else has drowned.
Wishful thinking is never rewarded.
Forget even a glance from the fate through
its bifocals that sees the past and future
of my shallow pockets and a stuffy wallet
that is filled with stubs of unemployment.
But for now, the price tags stay retracted
like the gears of an airplane that is ready.
Price here is an unnecessary distraction.
The forest of blurbous praise makes it
even more worthless to a second glance.
I read a few poems at random and judge
that this could be those befitting, nice glasses
for my new frame of mind that's been a while.
I queue up hoping for a miraculous discount.
The poem that opened a window on the shop floor
posed a tough Rubik's challenge at home.
I had a Rubik's cube already dusting like an alien pod
which can suddenly dance its way into purpose.
As a pixelated smile appears on its face,
I shift my attention to the cracks on the ceiling.
The pricey metaphors troll me and the costly
simile says you are like this, oh wait, not this like that.
The overpriced and underwritten theme leaves me
staring at a grainy mirror that showed much promise.
The luxurious rhyme appears once in a while
sitting snugly in his private yacht, decorated with
drinks and says "I have got it right. Have you?"
"No, I didn't" I reply, muttering about the deal.
I have paid up my dues for the lazy afternoons
the poet spent in a public library thinking
about his happiness and his sadness
and probably even making out in between
his breaks to the coffee shop. But what's done
is done. I see that. And I am back now
perched on the keyboard like a deal vulture, waiting
for an untimely event of the death of a famous poet.