The Last Poem

The Last Poem

He assembled the usual confectionary

Tasted the sharp and bitter, lined them up

In rows and sprinkled the sugar that

Constitutes thought over their making.

Nothing would come of any of this

The number of candied scenarios

Piled in the recesses of books

Sticking to paper like toffee

And leaving indelible

Scripture on skin

Smudged tattoos

After years of needles.

Under loved and over rated

The nights and days jostled

Like children in queues

For the final piece of fudge.

a boiling pan of jam

Blistered and foamed

On a stove that rusted

Under flames.

This was the last making

And the last scent of his stink

Overdosing on the sugar

That had made nut brittle of his life

And made his reputation

The shiny wrappers

In the bins of the world.