This Post Scheduled For 2/8/28

in Poetry

Tragedy as luxury
as this rich bitch of living
still has the time to
critique the ensemble
of my bespoke demise

And late, I realize
there is no shopping past
the prêt-à-porter nature
of our collective mortality,
no stitch in time

And yet even later, I surmise,
attaching signature to
signify that all affairs are
in order, is but a compromise,
a ritual to the bottom line

and that’s fine
as my hand has become illegible
and the ledger over annotated
and nothing, nothing real,
really added up
and that too, is fine.

we can now forever fill
the bit and byte
with remnants, fragments,
Excess, and surplus.
Some relics and the ridiculous.
What’s poignant, a puzzle, what’s possible.
The digital detritus of our own desire and design.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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