Jim Babwe
Tragedy
I awake to the scent
of strong coffee
which pulls me into the donut shop
next door and I know yogurt with fruit
is healthier for me
than a sugar-packed maple bar
because I know
this poem
is about death.
Sunrise jumps into the sky
casts new light upon the ocean
as I paddle into glassy surf
and before I catch a wave
I remember
this poem
is about death.
A folded pile of black tee-shirts
waits in the closet with a folded pile
of black denim jeans on a shelf
above a pile of shoes,
none of which are black
until I remember
this poem
is about death.
Fortunately
I remind myself
I hate poetry about poems
especially poems
that are supposed to be about death
but aren't
because the writer is lying.
His well-documented history
of introducing descriptions
of stupid things and beauty
includes abandoning these subjects
immediately before he finds a hammer
on the garage floor
next to a bloodied skull
of his most recent victim
who doesn't care
about coffee donuts sugar
sunrise the ocean surfing
black shirts black pants black shoes
or other irrelevant items
all of which are also extraneous now
but will soon become
even more redundant
as meaningless distractions
because
this poem
is about death.
Add this to the equation:
the man on the floor
never liked poetry
but why should you care?
You never even met the guy.
He does not know
this poem
is about death.
It's too late for him
and because you continue
to live
you enjoy the luxury of time.
In addition to being dead
the guy on the garage floor
never liked poetry.
Now I am authorized
to say the hammer
was not a murder weapon.
It's a mystery
and I can't take it anymore.
You figure it out.
In order to accomplish
that task
I will leave you with the following facts.
There is no garage.
There is no hammer.
There is no dead guy.
And no matter what you were told
this poem is not about death.
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