(by Anonymous)

There is no poetry for me.
My years of love to celebrate have passed.
No praise is due for this old body
Never was, really.
Sing the body neglected

I do not live in or near the woods
The Ocean is miles away
Beautiful people no longer visit me
My day is past,
Perhaps it never came

There is one raspy, carping woman, here
Who shouts commands and then complains,
But I would rather forget than herald her.
Occasionally, she goes away.
Then it is quiet.

The neighbors do not speak.
When the doorbell does ring,
Someone wants a contribution
Or a signature
Or I’ve already voted absentee

You can’t see out the dingy windows
It doesn’t matter..
Outdoors it’s always windy, smelly, and gray.
We never see the stars, not up that late.
Too foggy for sun in the morning.

I read the papers
Some books, billboards,
I write uninspired reports and briefs
They are prosaic
There is no poetry for me.

(Poet’s name provided upon request)