• The Last Poem

    When all the poems have been written
    and the saffron robes of the last king
    have swept a dusty palace floor,
    and a forlorn light on a metal dome
    is the only sign of human life,
    Someone deep under the cold planet,
    hunched over a fire,
    will say I wrote something.
    His friend will reply
    it can't be a poem;
    all the poems have been written.
    well, says the first, for now, I will call it
    a poem