8/7/2019 A Poet on His Deathbed

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A Poet on His Deathbed

Father, do you hear me? Eat some food. Drink some water.Why don’t you want to talk to me, Father? Are you mad at me?

How could I be mad at you, SonWhile I’m lying like a soaked rat Senile and sick in this drab pensionWaiting for Godot or Black DeathYou see me not. You care for me never Now you don’t even see I’ve got a fever

Open your eyes, Father. I didn’t mean to neglect you. I’m sorry I couldn’t always be withyou. I’m married now, Father. I have a family. Don’t you want to see your daughter-in-law and grandson?

God, you’re married now. How time fliesWasn’t it yesterday I rocked you in my arms?You wetted the bed every night. Your Mom said, “GuysYou’re just alike. You two wet my bed either with pisses or sperms!”Such a beauty your Mother was. Have you lately visited her grave?No? We’ll see her soon, Son. You walk, I lie in the coffin. Ave!

If you hear me Father, I’m leaving now. I’ll be back soon bringing you some books of poetry. So long, Father.

Books of poetry? Why don’t you just bring me scriptures?

God must’ve written poetry in the blank (uni) verseJust go and ball your wife!Who cares for a bum poet rotting away with literature?I touch their conscience and they spit at my faceBawling out: “You’re interfering with my life!”

Outside the festivity is getting merrier. In chorus, people are counting down to a newyear. Fireworks fly and boom in the starry sky. Handclaps, hugs, kisses. Everyone makeswishes.

Marry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!

Why nobody comes? Where’s everyone?Where are my lovers, the brunettes and the blondesWho promised to love me till I’m bones?Sick as I am, I still remember how women’s hair smellsI used to gauge the viscousness of their love with my dipstick into the belles

8/7/2019 A Poet on His Deathbed

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One of the fireworks derails. It hits home by smashing the glass window of the poet’sroom. In no time the room is one of the scenes in Dante’s Inferno .

Home is where the heart is. Nothingness will be my homeHeaven and Hell are the ultimate dualism I don’t conform

The curtain starts to catch fire. The flame unfurls its wings and crackles the bigbookshelves. It swallows up his books, his literary works.

Father, you forgot to come home for my seventh birthdayI’ve done my homework, Mother…Can I now go out and play?

Ravenous flame licks the bed where the poet is. Finding it tasty, it’s ready for the maincourse.

Can anyone fetch me a pen and paper? I’ve got equational inspiration!

A poet plus a beauty plus good wine plus a cozy room equals perspiration

The wind swoops up a singed page of one of the poet’s charred books, carries it afarbefore alighting on a forsaken sidewalk. It is Eliot’s Prufrock which reads “Let us gothen, you and I/ When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherizedupon a table…”

©matzenabdullah2004