by Jarek Jarvis
There is only one poet left in this world
and he is pounding Coors Light
on a dancefloor where the DJ
performs in front of an episode
of Mobile Suit Gundam projected on the wall behind them.
The only other poet in this world
stepped outside to watch a friend bum smokes from strangers,
and complain about how hard it is to pee
with the conga line and TED talk
currently being held in the stone walls of the Men’s restroom.
All the rest of the poets in the world
are scrambling, trying to reckon
with a succession of Irish
Goodbyes and Nabokov’s nagging shade
as they sip on a tart little mixed drink called Lola.
Truly, if there are any poets left in the world;
it’s all these folks and their denim
on denim, clashing patterns of plaid
and their jagged, homemade haircuts
dyed in only psychedelic hues.
A lonely poet wanders into a dive bar
And wonders where it’s been all his life.
