Poetically Opposed


“They called it Dead Poets Society for a reason,” he said,

as he rolled over on his side of the king size matrimonial bed,
as if to make her understand, it is poetry that actually 

died. Had this in fact been true testament, I get the feeling 
he was not among the mourners.  He refused to inhale

the scent of white, sweet lilies upon the grave.
Could not hear the mourning song, intonation 

between grief and glory. Could not be touched 
by life’s fragility. Could not see ghosts dancing in the wind. 

He could only utter this question, under his breath,
“Why bother wasting time writing all these poems?”

“Yes, Dear” she answered, “why bother at all.”