Last Victim by Tim Wood

A cup of Indian Malabar
A buck and a half in the register
A quarter in the tip jar	 that bought 
three "professional"	 or at least willing to show up	 poets
saying pretty words full of CraftCraftCraft	 and that  
bought blank stares	 all those words and nothing was said	 except
at the end a girl shooed a burb brat at the mic	 i introduced him with a  sneer	 
and now	 welcome our last victim on  The Poet Is Right	 
ready your tomatoes	  and on and on	 next victim was at least right
he had just sung at a grandfather's funeral	 the guy had lived
97 years and they finished it off without a sermon	 out of 97 years
no one could find anything worth saying	 The boy wanted to know
why were they even there	 this man saw 
the rise and fall of the last great empire
the death of that late gasp church ChristCommunismRationality
and the end of meaning	 
 
there was nothing to say	 except
how life-like  the corpse's skin looked	 97 years dead
and he looked pretty in his oak casket	 with CraftCraftCraft
the organist plinked pretty notes and stared vacantly 
as the boy from the suburbs
sang	 there was nothing to say	 except  
how pretty he sang	 all his relatives thought
his voice was so pretty	 and he got mad	 wondering why
are they here	 why are we here	 but
he smiled and hugged his relatives
just like he was supposed to
and then said thank you
and walked away	 walked away
from the mic and all the empty 
sounds and pretty
words full of CraftCraftCraft	 so many years invested
and there was nothing to say	 except
A cup of Indian Malabar
A buck and a half in the register
A quarter in the tip jar 	

© 1995 Tim Wood