Dead poet

The famous poet 

died and left his manuscripts 

to his wife and publisher. 

After he was put in the ground, 

the wife and publisher 

went through the unpublished poems. 

It was decided the dead poet 

was an embarrassment: 

he wrote about crude things, 

alcoholism, sex, bodily functions, 

he was misanthropic 

and that was unacceptable 

for the widow and publisher. 

He used coarse language, cursed 

and said bad things about people, 

especially women, 

and it was unacceptable, 

politically incorrect 

for the widow and his publisher, 

so they edited, 

removed words and entire lines, 

softened things up, 

all of which would have outraged the poet, 

but he was dead 

and unable do anything about it. 

I am not a famous poet. 

I am nowhere near fame, and when I die, 

it is unlikely anyone will modify 

and sanitize my poems. 

Most likely, when my remaining possessions

are gone through, they will find my poems, 

stories, and artwork in a box

and like all undiscovered 

and undiscoverable poets, 

everything will be rolled out to the curb 

for trash pickup 

on Thursday.

making ends meet

it’s a terrifying thought. 

the alarm clock 

going off next to my head 

before light has had 

a chance to conquer darkness. 

the bathroom thing. 

I no longer shave, 

but I must brush my teeth, 

what’s left of them, 

and there’s no hair to comb, 

so I am spared another routine. 

dress in clothes perpetually wrinkled, 

put on workman boots, 

a strip of cardboard showing at the heel, 

tie laces with tired fingers. 

out to the car. 

the cars I have gone through, 

they find me when they want to die. 

traffic. it is endless, 

and the anger and impatience, 

the inevitability of road rage 

and casual murder, 

dismemberment in the breakdown lane. 

I pull in at the far end 

of the parking lot 

because I am always late 

and on the edge of discipline, 

write-up, termination. 

and the boss. 

his face forever 

the mirror reflection of a nightmare.

the dream refuses to evaporate. 

and the work, 

mindless, numbing, deadening. 

this is what I face 

here in the autumn of my life. 

it is late November 

and I tell the cat it’s impossible, 

starvation is a possible answer,

a final and futile 

Buddhist gesture.  

the cat looks up at me.

it’s time for his breakfast. 

Timeline

One minute 

you are driving along 

obeying the law 

and the next minute 

a pregnant woman in a pickup truck 

careens from a side street. 

Life is irrevocably altered as she plows into you.

You are no match for her truck and distraction. 

This morning an email was sent. 

It said there are no matches for your job search criteria. 

The woman at the Center for the Aged in the Future

said there are currently no positions for senior citizens. 

You do not ask why.

You have learned not to ask questions. 

Questions are answered in the negative. 

Outside in the car 

you look at traffic and see 

a cement truck approaching. 

If you hurry 

you may be able to reach the street 

and change the timeline

forever. 

until death do us part

my wife

fell off the toilet

hit her head

hard

on the edge of the sink

until crimson flowed

down and dribbled

from her chin. she sat there 

naked on the floor bleeding

looking at me. 

my wife was so drunk

she was in another world

another dimension

and did not recognize me.

her addiction

held tight as a galvanized steel vice 

the two years we were married

and only released its

cold grip upon

death. 

Kurt Nimmo lives in New Mexico. He published Planet Detroit and PNG Chapbooks in the 1980s and 1990s.