sorry, i was distracted. sylvia plath
was the world’s last poet, & her awful
daddy was the second last. there is much
& hardly anything to write about nowadays.

i was promised a good poem at the end of
a million shitty ones. true, i’ve not been counting,
but statistics could, for once, take pity.

if i had only one page left, & the last signs
of vital ink, i’d breathe in deep, compose myself,
& fill the space with