If I Were a Poet

I rolled out of bed this morning
and heard about Charlie.
Just two weeks ago
Nanci crossed the great divide.
And it’s not that long since David took flight,
and I was left here,
stranded with ground control.

Every day,
another childhood hero —
No one says “with just a sword and shield,
he stood his ground,
until an arrow found his heart.”
They just say “it’s OK… he was old.”

It’s not too hard really to accept
I’m old — well, maybe less young.
But it feels strange, almost obscene,
that artists are more mortal than art.

I wonder what
someone will say about me.
“His later poems were his best.”
“It’s a shame he didn’t finish his tenth symphony.”
No, they’ll just say “it’s OK… he was old.”