One morning I vowed never to write another frivolous word.
The urgency of life pressed in upon me, the thought
of remaining years or months, like warlords or warriors,
or just plain war, roared at the edge of dawn’s red clouds.
I vowed to God or to anyone listening on forgotten frequencies,
that life was serious and not to be tinged by piffle,
but measured, metered and meted by graphs, and met,
with callipers, tweezers and reverence for wrenches.
That poetry must be put down with hammer and tong,
and that Wagner was the only phrasing fit for the span.
The day was going well until a man in a large leather cowboy hat
approached me and joked that he almost shot me,
mistaking me for a weed inspector,
which of course I was,
and my only response was to quip
of my relief that my last earthly image
was not his fulvous Fu Manchu,
greying ponytail, and hat,
large as a sail.
After that, we talked far into the afternoon
about his love of aliens, lake monsters,
and his collection Sasquatch stories,
and hope of one of day seeing a UFO.