Thursday, April 9, 2009

another poem by

We talk so much
about so little

At work
in our homes
and on our phones
we gather
circling over
the lives of
family, friends, acquiantances and strangers
like vultures
we rip away bits of flesh
feasting on their tragedy
and failure

In this formation
days are shaved off
of precious lives
in heavy chunks
and we do not see
that Death is only
a mile down the road
rolling toward us
in a gold 1972
Cadillac Coupe De Ville

And when that beast
swings into our driveway
the time for talk
will have passed

Death’s secretary
will have already booked
a meeting with
family, friends, acquiantances and strangers
a meeting in which the
top item on the agenda
will be to feast on the
delicious story
of our demise

Just as we had done
so well
when we were
among the living

We talk so much
about so little

And with so little

We still
sit at the stone
our tongues
and admiring them
as they gleam


Robert Bruce is one of the most read, linked, loved and reviled poets working on the web. He writes at KNIFE GUN PEN every Monday from Portland, Ore. Get more of Robert over at Twitter. If this did something to you or for you, go ahead and spread it around...


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