for mike james
every time we got together
we argued about ezra pound
& if you were here now
i would still tell you
he was as boring as a dense fog
but contrary to popular belief
It's the dead
who have the last word
i can still see you
sitting there at the local fair
laughing as they announced the winner
of the greased pig race
drinking cheap red wine
your heart as big a hay bale
& that’s what matters
not words flung like horseshoes
that never seem to reach
their intended targets
just you sitting there patiently
with dan up 3 days
off his meds
talking about how he was
never going to write poems again
while you squeezed his hand.
for neeli cherkovski
the day is almost over
the sky is fat & gray
heaven was once
a newborn baby
suspended in the trees
just above the earth
with you gone
who will sing
to whitman’s wild children
they are just orphans now
rocking back & forth alone
they’re birthdays
are invisible motherless acts
of fruitless creation
a fatherless dream
on no sleep
where the waves keep crashing
& a heart monitor goes silent
as birds chirp
filling empty hospital rooms
with music
dead rooms
full of unnamed children
who came here
looking for answers
in another life.
John Dorsey is the former poet laureate of Belle, Missouri and the author of Pocatello Wildflower. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.