The Poems I Never Wrote

The poems I never wrote don’t exist anymore

In a tragedy greater than Alexandria’s Library

They’ve been burned by a righteous flame

To the point where not even ashes remain

Executed by a creature made out of words

It steals them

From the paper

From my mouth

Unlike the poems, unlike myself, the creature has a purpose

To punish me for my hubris

For thinking I deserve anything

But its actions are also a form of mercy

Cleansing my brain of its failure

The poems I never wrote would never amount to anything

They just took up space I didn’t have to spare

I would have forgotten about them anyway

So why am I upset?

The poems I never wrote are left unread

Even by myself

I just watch them burn

After John Brehm

Decay

Flowers are beautiful,

Until they grow mold.

No more does their fresh scent linger,

Throughout our homes.

Withered and decaying,

No longer do they roam.

They revert to the earth,

No blooms to be shown.

Calla lily, daisy, dahlia,

All on their own.

Hoping, praying,

To discover the unknown.

Funerals are a hoax,

Even to the old crone.

She saw what they didn’t,

No more seeds to be sown.

Good Humor Man

As I made change for an elderly couple,

The wife pointed out the metal coin dispenser

Hooked to my belt. She told me a story from

“When we were younger.” She told me about

The “good humor man” selling ice-cream to kids:

Ten cents apiece. She said he had a change belt

Just like mine—collecting payment for icy treats.

The husband said that when the man rang his bell

Children ran, bringing that week’s savings:

Ten cents apiece. The husband shook his head, sighing.

Ice cream treats cost over three dollars now, he said.

I looked back down at the change I was making.

I compared the twenty-dollar-bill he’d handed me

To ten-cent ice creams they had as kids.

I saw what a twenty used to be.