T.S. Garp

T.S. Garp

He sits there in momentary,
but dopey,
agony.
I remember!
We read it!
6th Grade!
Mrs. Hoffman’s class!

(What a burly and startling woman she was!)

Too late.
The words echo only
inside his super-novaed mind.

(Il est le prison cantaloup qui sent si mauvais!
N'oubliez pas que nous l'a jeté à la poubelle?
Il ya trois jours?)

Broken inside,
His last shit an important failure.
Not even a mildly romantic
rupture of the heart.
No coroner will say,
“Ah the love pump. It has failed!”

“He didn’t have no one,” say the black girls and
they clean him up,
Flip him into the body bag.
Peel off their yellow gloves and drop them in the trash.
“Nobody ever came to see him.”

The poet drifts from Purgatory,
no intention in the exit.

“It is morning, Senlin says.”

Written by Victor Jose Magri
Posted on 11-26-12