Used space is what I used.
Clocks with broken arms.
A frosted orange stick that was about to melt.
Then, just like that,
It’s you at the bottom of the page.
No more room for another word.
Like you’re taking a shit
and in the middle of a Valsalva maneuver:
That’s when the mercury pours out
& over the top
and you say, “This is it, baby”.
But what a messy time to go:
not like Gov’ner Rockefeller
or JFK or General Custer,
all heat and passion, at the top
of their powers. Well, god,
or whatever, just let’s finish
what we’ve got to say.
It’s only a few more lines to the bottom
So this has to be the very last
Poem in the book.