The Last Poet
Waxing poetic on dead streets
and wind bleached bones
he hails the resurgence
of man’s wild nature
while wading through carcasses
of dead cell phones
scattering
clattering
past a hyena
resting in the shade
of half a sky-scraper.
The poet whistles
wanting the beast
for companionship
but he only raises his snout
and laughs in echoing yips
his mirth fading like ships
in a mist of elsewhere
so the crier
straightens his gun belt
the leather creaking
like a dying tree limb
and from his holster
he draws his pencil
and prints his muse
onto hallucination
his minds imagination
as he calls into emptiness
“Is there anybody out there?
Alas, any other soul?”
But the only answer
is the laughter
of the beast
colliding with
the pleas
of the poet
and falling silent
like a tree in the forest