Get Along, Little Doggies

At the end of things the poet assassinates grammar incarcerates imagery handcuffs metaphor to narrative and banishes every green shade of nature Only the word remains battered defeated reviled held fast against the poet’s heart like a talisman force it to say what you mean force it to mean what you say choose a troubadour's tone for infinite flexibility Banish the narcissistic urge to reshape letters in the image of their speakers his wide-set eyes and weak chin her flaming hair and buckshot freckles that ridiculous laugh belying an English lineage This is the making game and poets make it new until it is old tired enervated and gone

make it dead then but even your makeshift grave cannot last At the end of things you barter with your captives time is worthless slipping its shell like an inebriated snail whip up escargot and caviar for the marriage feast of reason and rhyme for the anthem of meter’s alma mater for the dead-eye diction of the cowboy poet Get along, little doggies the sun sets one final time then it’s coffee and beans and paradise dreams until the everlasting end of things